Selections  from  Wordsworth. 


raitlj  Notes 


BY 


A.  J.  GEORGE,  LiTT.  D., 

INSTRUCTOR    IN     ENGLISH    LITERATURE    AND    HISTORY    IN 
NEWTON    (MASS.)   HIGH   SCHOOL. 


Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 
The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  hei-s 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays. 


D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1889, 
By  a.  J.  George. 


I  FO 


Co  a,  W.  ©. 

IN   MEMORY  OF   HOURS   WITH   WORDSWORTH 
AT   THE  ENGLISH   LAKES. 


449826 


PREFACE. 


IF  it  be  true  that  ancient  literature  concerned  itself  largely 
with  Nature,  and  mediaeval  with  ideas  of  God,  surely 
the  literature  of  the  modern  world  has  neglected  neither  of 
these  great  subjects,  but  has  united  them  with  a  third,  —  the 
character  of  man,  his  origin,  his  present  condition,  and  his 
future  destiny.  Again,  while  in  the  earlier  periods  man  was 
a  creature  of  the  present  and  lived  in  the  senses,  and  in  the 
Middle  Ages  he  was  oblivious  of  the  present  and  looked  only 
to  the  securing  of  a  peaceful  future,  now  he  considers  the 
present  in  its  relation  to  the  future,  and  views  life  as  one  and 
continuous,  having  no  abrupt  changes  or  limitations. 

Views  of  the  place  of  man  in  the  Divine  plan,  which  pre- 
vail now  among  the  most  thoughtful,  are  more  consistent 
with  the  spirit  of  Christianity  than  those  which  were  held 
heretofore.  To  what  is  this  due  ?  I  believe  that  it  is  quite 
as  much  the  result  of  the  transparent  Christian  character,  the 
beautiful  sympathy,  and  the  catholic  fraternity  of  those  who 
have  influenced  literary  taste,  as  to  the  founding  of  systems 
of  philosophy  or  theology.     While  modern  science  has  often 


VI  PREFACE. 

assumed  the  truth  of  conclusions  which  have  seemed  atheistic, 
it  has  been  confronted,  not  with  theoretical  commonplace, 
but  with  moral  life  ;  and  when  it  has  attempted  to  account  for 
this,  and  it  has  failed  to  find  in  its  laboratory  apparatus  suffi- 
ciently delicate  to  test  spirit,  motive,  hfe,  men  have  concluded 
that  its  philosophy  was  not  final  after  alL 

The  struggle  of  this  centxuy  has  been  between  the  advo- 
cates of  blind  force  —  worshippers  at  the  altar  of  an  eternal 
It  —  and  the  disciples  of  Intelligent  Free  Causation,  with  re- 
sults by  no  means  discouraging  to  the  latter.  It  is  in  aid  of 
faith  that  literature  has  contributed  its  best  efforts,  and  in  it 
we  find  that  trinity  of  God,  Man,  and  Nature  which  appeals 
to  the  imagination,  the  heart,  and  the  conscience ;  its  motive 
has  been  to  firee,  arouse,  dilate. 

A  companionship  with  those  who  have  been  foremost  in 
the  application  of  ideas  to  life  will  assist  us  in  dispelling  those 
illusions  which  tend  to  refine  away  the  personality  of  man, 
and  attempt  to  account  for  consciousness  in  terms  of  physics, 
destroying  the  unity  both  of  the  world  and  of  the  mind. 

The  connection  between  Hterature  and  life  is  \dtal;  and 
what  we  need  is  not  acquisition  and  information,  so  much 
as  inspiration  and  illumination  —  a  consciousness  of  mental 
and  moral  power  which  can  see  clearly  and  feel  deeply.  By 
living  in  vital  relation  to  such  writers  as  have  furnished  the 
literature  of  power,  and  feeling  the  force  of  their  clear  and 
pure  spirituality,  we  attain  that  attitude  of  mind  in  which  we 
are  able  to  receive  faithful  impressions,  and  to  make  true 
observations.  When  the  heart  of  the  reader  beats  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  heart  of  the  writer,  both  the  sense  and  beauty 


/  PREFACE.  Vii 

of  the  wc^k  become  apparent.  But  this  mental  attitude  is 
one  of  t/ie  rarest  in  the  history  of  criticism;  it  requires 
patience  and  fortitude,  a  willingness  to  use  all  the  faculties 
of  our  nature,  and  then  abide  the  result  without  exercising 
a  prurient  curiosity,  or  becoming  anxious  lest  we  be  not  able 
to  formulate  the  method. 

In  the  matter  of  literary  criticism  we  need  to  guard  against 
those  scientific  methods  which  assume  that  culture  is  mainly  a 
thing  of  the  head,  and  that  the  interpretation  of  literature  is 
a  thing  to  be  acquired  by  the  same  methods  as  the  ability  to 
demonstrate  Euclid.  An  age  of  speculation  is  not  an  age  of 
faith,  nor  is  an  age  of  criticism  an  age  of  creation.  A  system 
has  prevailed  by  which  the  critic  is  constituted  a  supreme 
judge,  who,  sitting  apart,  without  sympathy  or  reverence,  is  to 
pronounce  sentence  upon  the  culprit  who  has  dared  to  violate 
the  judicial  standard.  In  his  charge  he  uses  those  maxims 
and  doctrines  which  have  become  the  commonest  furniture 
of  the  commonest  minds  j  he  pronounces  the  style  obscure, 
affected,  or  classical,  the  method  involved,  and  the  matter 
puerile  or  unintelligible,  but  does  not  explain  what  he  means 
by  these  terms ;  *  if  he  would  only  give  us  the  law  by  which 
we  might  be  prevented  from  writing  or  speaking  anything 
that  is  not  simple,  natural,  and  manly '  what  a  blessing  he 
would  confer  !  Our  disciples  of  this  inner  temple  of  formal- 
ism ply  their  trade  and  insist  upon  a  microscopical  analysis, 
a  fine  sifting  of  word  and  phrase,  a  delicate  classification  of 
figure,  and  a  comparative  anatomy  of  form ;  while  the  stu- 
dent, who  may  not  taste  a  flower  till  it  have  yielded  up  its 
sweets  a  prelibation  to  this  pedant's  idol,  seeing  that  his 


J 


<^Hi  PREFACE. 

knowledge  is  purchased  by  the  loss  of  power,  votes  the  au- 
thor dull  and  the  study  of  literature  a  bore ;  — 

'  "  For  this  unnatural  growth  the  trainer  blame, 

sj  Pity  the  tree." 

It  was  at  the  bar  of  such  criticism  that  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, Scott,  Tennyson,  and  Browning  were  condemned. 
Now  if  the  history  of  art  has  decided  anything,  it  is  that  an 
attitude  of  mental  receptivity  is  what  enables  one  to  sympa- 
thize, to  grasp  a  work  as  an  organic  whole,  and  to  understand 
the  law  governing  the  combination  of  phenomena  which  pro- 
duced the  supreme  total  effect. 

Maurice,  one  of  the  most  sympathetic  and  catholic  men  of 
this  century,  says  :  "  Let  us  try  to  know  what  an  author  says 
before  we  proceed  to  classify  or  to  pass  sentence  upon  him. 
It  is  wonderful  how  much  our  faculties  of  discernment  will 
grow  and  unfold  themselves  if  we  begin  by  throwing  all  our 
notions  about  style  overboard,  and  simply  come  to  be  taught 
why  this  author  spoke  in  this  way,  and  that  in  another ;  why 
this  was  significant  of  him  and  of  the  time  in  which  he  lived, 
and  another  belonged  to  a  person  who  lived  in  a  different 
time  and  who  had  another  work." 

It  is  by  vital  energy  of  soul  projected  into  their  works  that 
the  poets  have  moved  men. 

Wordsworth,  "a  severe  but  genial  critic,"  was  the  first  to 
insist  that  each  new  genius,  each  new  personality,  should  be 
judged  by  new  canons  applicable  to  him  alone,  and  that 
every  artist  must  create  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  appre- 
ciated.    For  this  he  was  roundly  abused ;  his  prefaces  were 


PREFACE.  IX 

called  "  stuff  and  nonsense  ; "  but  the  truth  he  uttered  has, 
nevertheless,  become  one  of  the  estabhshed  canons  of 
criticism. 

It  is  not  worth  while  for  us  to  spend  our  time  with  those 
authors  who  have  made  literature  a  trade  or  a  profession ; 
life  is  too  short  for  us  to  stand  Kstening  to  those  who  do  not 
recognize  that  "the  life  is  more  than  meat,"  and  that  the  rise 
and  fall  of  books  obey  the  same  law  now  as  thousands  of 
years  ago,  —  the  degree  in  which  they  bear  witness  to  the 
grand  truth  of  the  priceless  value  of  every  human  soul,  rather 
than  to  what  is  distinctive  of  a  particular  class. 

A  distinguished  living  poet  and  critic,^  after  asking  whether 
literature,  under  the  present  ideas  of  life  and  education,  will 
on  the  whole  be  an  enemy  to  luxury  and  an  inspirer  of  virtue, 
or  an  ally  of  materialism  and  a  pander  to  vice,  says  :  "  There 
is  not  a  rural  village,  nor  a  mighty  city,  the  peace  of  which 
will  not  one  day  depend  upon  the  answer  time  must  make  to 
this  question." 

In  these  times  of  "  storm  and  stress,"  as  the  Germans  say, 
of  handicrafts  and  trades  and  mechanical  marvels,  of  rapid 
reading  of  newspapers,  reviews,  and  periodicals,  it  may  seem 
presumption  to  insist  upon  any  degree  of  literary  culture  for 
the  majority ;  they  must  be  left  to  their  newspapers  and  re- 
views, which  are  so  much  better  than  those  their  fathers  had. 
Now  the  objection  to  this  laissez  faire  theory  is  that  they 
are  thus  left  entirely  ignorant  of  that  personal  element  in 
literature  which  constitutes  its  very  life ;  they  are  in  inter- 
course with  an  infinite  We^  for  which  it  is  impossible  to  form 
1  Aubrey  de  Vere. 


X  PREFACE. 

an  intimate  friendship.  Now  the  power  of  personality,  of 
exalted  manhood,  has  everywhere  stamped  its  impress  upon 
the  masterpieces  of  literature ;  and  a  true  appreciation  of 
these  indicates  a  moral  earnestness,  a  disposition  to  seek  "the 
best  that  has  been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,"  and  this 
is  what  we  mean  by  culture. 

This  work  has  been  a  labor  of  love,  for  as  I  have  come 
under  the  power  of  Wordsworth's  strong  and  pure  personality 
—  whether  in  the  sacred  associations  of  the  class-room,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  study,  or  in  the  inspiring  and  recreating  atmos- 
phere of  his  beloved  Lake-land  —  he  has  spoken  as  a  friend 
and  companion,  not  as  from  some  lofty  and  far-off  sphere  of 
perfected  manhood,  but  from  the  common  highway  of  duty 
and  responsibility,  cheering  with  the  God-speed  of  one  who 
has  faced  the  same  trials  and  wrestled  with  the  same  problems 
that  beset  our  common  humanity  ;  and  best  of  all,  he  encour- 
ages with  the  faith  which  comes  to  one  who  lives  ever  in  the 
light  of  high  endeavor. 

It  is  encouraging  to  notice  the  position  that  English  studies 
are  occupying  in  our  best  schools  and  colleges  :  it  is  one  in- 
dication of  the  return  to  that  ideal  and  spiritual  philosophy 
taught  by  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Tennyson,  and  Browning, 
Newman,  Robertson,  Kingsley,  and  Maurice,  —  a  philosophy 
in  which  the  facts  of  human  experience  were  interpreted  and 
referred  to  an  order  and  a  world  beyond  that  which  the 
senses  can  reveal.  They  have  looked  at  life  steadily  and  as 
a  whole,  and  have  given  to  the  world  ideas  which  are  broader, 
deeper,  and  more  consistent  than  those  of  a  materialistic  phi- 
losophy; representing  no  system  of  education  or  school  of 


PREFACE.  XI 

morals,  they  have  taught  that  all  education  is  a  failure  which 
does  not  develop  an  eye  to  see  and  a  heart  to  feel  moral, 
artistic,  and  intellectual  excellence.  While  the  professional 
moralists  and  the  doctrinaires  have  been  formulating  what 
the  world  should  think  and  believe,  these  earnest  men,  by  the 
simplicity  and  sincerity  of  their  lives,  have  brought  the  truths 
of  God  and  the  beauties  of  heaven  to  the  deeper  heart  of  the 
young  men  of  this  generation. 

The  clear,  pure  voice  of  these  poets  and  prophets  continues 
to  be  heard  above  the  incessant  din  of  our  modern  Babylon, 
calling  upon  men  to  live  the  life  of  the  spirit ;  to  leave  the 
dispute  of  words  for  the  discernment  of  things,  and  declaring 
that  not  a  syllable  of  God's  infinite  language  can  be  under- 
stood without  a  deed. 

"  All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure ; 

What  entered  into  thee,        ~-— — ■ 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be ; 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops ;   Potter  and  clay  endure." 

These  Selections  have  been  chosen  after  some  experience 
in  their  use  with  classes,  and  are,  it  is  hoped,  the  best  repre- 
sentative of  the  poet's  work.  If  they  had  been  limited  to 
those  poems  which  represent  his  best  work,  the  plan  of  ex- 
hibiting the  growth  of  Wordsworth's  mind  and  art  could  not 
have  been  realized.  Wordsworth  more  than  most  poets  needs 
careful,  and  even  reverential,  study ;  he  wrote  so  much,  and 
his  work  extends  over  so  many  years,  that  one  needs  to  be 
familiar  with  the  best  product  of  each  period  of  his  work  — 
dawn,  mid-day,  and  sunset  —  in  order  to  appreciate  the  beauty 


Xii  PREFACE. 

and  the  variety,  the  breadth  and  the  intensity,  of  his  contri- 
butions to  literature. 

Professor  Shairp  has  said  that  a  thorough  and  appreciative 
commentary,  which  should  open  avenues  to  the  study  of 
Wordsworth,  and  render  accessible  his  imaginative  heights 
and  his  meditative  depths,  would  be  a  boon  to  the  younger 
part  of  this  generation.  With  the  hope  of  contributing 
something  to  the  accomplishment  of  such  a  result  the 
Prelude  was  published;  a  familiarity  with  that  great  poem 
is  essential  to  a  proper  understanding  of  the  influences 
which  did  so  much  to  shape  Wordsworth's  career.  The 
reception  that  was  accorded  that  work  has  encouraged 
me  to  fulfil  the  promise  then  made,  that  it  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  other  of  his  works.  Most  of  the  work  was  done 
in  the  delightful  surroundings  of  the  Lake  country,  and  noth- 
ing has  been  omitted  which  it  was  thought  would  add  to  the 
understanding  or  the  appreciation  of  the  poems.  Words- 
worth's interpreters  have  been  for  the  most  part  wise  and 
prudent,  and  the  homage  which  they  have  paid  him  has  been 
worthy  both  of  them  and  of  him. 

I  am  greatly  indebted  to  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere,  who,  with  Pro- 
fessor Shairp  and  Matthew  Arnold,  has  merited  the  gratitude 
of  all  lovers  of  poetry  in  general  and  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  in 
particular.  His  kindness  in  reviewing  the  hst  of  poems  selected, 
his  thoughtful  suggestions,  and  his  sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment have  added  not  a  little  to  the  pleasure  of  my  work. 

The  chronological  order  has  been  followed  as  the  only 
suitable  one.  The  Sonnets  have  been  grouped  by  themselves, 
as  it  is  often  desirable  to  make  a  study  of  sonnet  literature. 


PREFACE,  xui 

and  Wordsworth's  Sonnets  illustrate  a  special  and  distinct 
phase  of  this  work,  and  are  extensive  enough  to  be  considered 
separately. 

The  text  adopted  is  in  every  case  the  poet's  last  revision. 

As  regards  annotation,  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  sug- 
gest and  stimulate  rather  than  to  complete.  Wordsworth's 
own  notes  dictated  to  Miss  Fenwick  are  especially  helpful ; 
these  are  given  for  the  most  part  in  full.  Whenever  it  has 
seemed  that  a  description  of  the  scene  connected  with  a 
given  poem  would  shed  light  upon  it,  I  have  not  hesitated 
to  introduce  it. 

In  regard  to  the  use  to  be  made  of  the  notes  in  class,  I 
would  say  that  with  the  exception  of  the  poet's  own,  which 
are  in  the  main  historical,  they  should  be  supplementary, 
never  introductory.  The  pupil  should  in  every  case  by  care- 
ful reading  and  afterthought  form  his  own  ideas  first ;  for  it 
would  be  better  that  he  should  disagree  with  every  interpre- 
tation in  the  notes,  than  that  he  should  substitute  one  of  them 
in  place  of  his  own  thought.  Burke  says  that  the  method  of 
teaching  which  approaches  most  nearly  to  the  method  of 
investigation  is  incomparably  the  best. 

This  work  is  based  upon  the  idea  that  we  should  keep 
close  to  those  writers  who  have  enriched  the  tone  and 
expanded  the  compass  of  our  literature.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  there  is  an  escape  from  the  dry  class  drudgery  in  "  Ele- 
gant Extracts  "  and  "  Gems  of  Poetry  "  to  the  forbidden  fruit 
of  sentimental  novel  writers,  after  the  mind  has  been  con- 
ducted through  the  thousand  and  one  writers  with  no  time  to 
rest  with  any  ?    Professor  Dowden  says :  "  To  submit  our- 


xiv  PREFACE. 

selves  to  as  many  masters  as  may  be  counted  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  is  as  much  as  can  really  be  accomplished  in  a 
lifetime." 

From  the  Memoirs  of  the  Poet,  and  the  critical  notes  in 
the  third  volume  of  his  Prose  Works,  I  have  taken  much  of 
the  material  herein  contained.  To  the  excellent  edition  of  the 
poems  of  Wordsworth  by  Professor  Knight,  I  am  indebted 
for  the  notes  from  hitherto  unpublished  Journals. 

To  the  late  Mrs.  William  Wordsworth,  of  the  Stepping 
Stones,  Ambleside,  whose  sickness  and  death  saddened  my 
last  visit  to  the  Lakes,  I  am  indebted  for  both  information 
and  encouragement. 

Of  the  dates  at  the  head  of  each  poem,  the  first  refers 
to  the  year  of  composition,  the  second  to  the  year  of 
publication. 

This  work  will  be  followed  by  The  Excursion  and  The 
White  Doe  of  Rylstone, 


A.  J.  G. 


Brookline,  Mass., 
August,  1889. 


NOTE  TO  SECOND   EDITION. 

The  "Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,"  which  was  by  mistake 
omitted  from  the  first  edition,  will  be  found  upon  page  296, 

A.  J.  G, 


CONTENTS.  xvu 

The  Solitary  Reang^ 156 

Tarruw  Unvli^rted 158 

-  The  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  her  Husband     ....  160 

■•  On  Approaching  Home 163 

*  1804.     To  the  Cuckoo 164 

*  .IShe  was  a  Phantom  of  delight  *' 166 

♦  ^The  Daffodils / 167 

%TTrerz*rfaiction  of  Margaret  —j— 168 

Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter  Dora 171 

The  Small  Celandine  (third /poem) 174 

•^*  ISOsVode  to  Duty L 175 

•  To  a  Skylark 1 177 

Fidelity \ 178 

■"  Incident  Characteristic  of  a  Favorite  Dog 181 

-  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  Same  Dog 182 

"  When,  to  the  attractions  of  a  busy  world  " 184 

\/ Elegiac  Stanzas  Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle 

in  a  Storm,  Painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont  .     .     .  188 

-To  the  Daisy  (fourth  poem) 190 

To  a  Young  Lady 193 

1806.  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 194 

Stray  Pleasures 197 

"Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  echo" 198 

Lines  Written  on  the  Expected  Death  of  Mr.  Fox  .     .     .  199 

.       Power  of  Music  .     . 201 

•   V^de  on  Intimations  of  Immortali"^ 203  . 

1807.  "  O  nigiitingale  !  thou  surely  art  " 210 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle 211 

The   Force  of    Prayer;    or,  The   Founding  of   Bolton 

Priory 217 

1814.V'Laodamia 220 

Dion 226 

"^  Composed  at  Cora  Linn,  in  Sight  of  Wallace's  Tower    .  231 

•      Yarrow  Visited 233 

1816.  -  To ,  On  her  First  Ascent  to  the  Summit  of  Helvellyn  236 

1817.  Ode  to  Lycoris 238 

The  Pass  of  Kirkstone 240 

Sequel  to  the  *'  Beggars "     . 243 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

1818.  Composed  upon  an  Evening  of  Extraordinary  Splendor  ' 
and  Beauty 245 

^  Near  the  Spring  of  the  Hermitage 248 

1819.  September,  1819 249 

1820.  The  River  Duddon.     To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth    .     .  251    . 

1823.  •"  Memory 254   . 

To  the  Lady  Fleming 256 

1824.  "  O  dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear  " 260 

Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  Ossian  .     .     .  261 

1825.  To  a  Skylark 264 

To  May 264 

The  Pillar  of  Trajan 268    ! 

The  Wishing-Gate 270 

The  Wishing-Gate  Destroyed 273 

1830.  "  In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  tree  " 276 

1831.  The  Primrose  of  the  Rock 276 

4  Yarrow  Revisited 278 

-'*^6n  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 282 

1832.  Devotional  Incitements 283 

-  "  If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven  "...  286 

1833.  "If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain" 286 

1834.  "  Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life  "  .     . 287 

To  a  Child.     Written  in  her  Album 288 

1835.  Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb 288 

Extempore  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg      .  293 

1845."  *' So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive  " 295 

1797.    The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan  S 296 

SONNETS. 

IS^^^^^^^I^^-gcieYPd  for  Bnon^^parte  "_  .    ._ 299 

*  ^yf^^JCoQiB^ed  upon  Westminster  BridgeXSeptember  3,  1802  299 y/ 

'~'  '  Composied  by  the  Seaside,  iiekl  lialilis,  August,  1802  .     .  300 

Calais,  August,  1802 30^ 

Composed  near  Calais,  on  the  Road  Leading  to  Andres, 

August  7,  1802 301 

Calais,  August  15,  1802 301 

Composed  on  the  Beach  near  Calais 302 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic 302 


COKTTENTS,  XIX 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture    .    .    r 303 

September,  1802,  near  Dover 303 

Written  ii^T  '^^^"i  September,  1802 304 

London,  1802  \ 304 

Tlien  have  been  among  us  " 305 

"  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood  " 305 

"  When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed  "     .     .  306 

1803.     Composed  at Castle 306 

"  There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear  "...  307 

October,  1803 307 

"  England !  the  time  is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean  "  308 

To  the  Men  of  Kent,  October,  1803 308 

In  the  Pass  of  Killicranky 309 

1806.  "  Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room  "...  309 
^l9"iP'TftP'^  by  the  Side  of  Grasmere  Lake 310 

JThe  world  is  too  much  with  usj* 310 

Personal  laiic      \     T": — : — T^ 311 

Continued 311 

Continued 312 

Concluded , 312 

To  Sleep 313 

Continued 313 

Concluded 314 

To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert 314. 

November,  1806 315 

Adm^nitinn     .....     r     .     .     . -. -i-~:«_^_>^^— *    "  3^5 

1807.  thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland  .  316  . 

TcrTliuiiuj  Glaiksmi  uu  Uil  Fiiml  Pihiing  iiif-tJlT^ill 

for  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave  Trade 316 

1811.     "  Here  pause;  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise"    .     .  317 

1815.     To  B.  R.  Haydon 317 

To  Catherine  Wordsworth 318 

1820.     Oxford,  May  30,  1820 318 

'*  Sole  listener,  Duddon  !  to  the  breeze  thet  played  "  .     .  319 

Seathwaite  Chapel .  319 

"  Return,  Content !  for  fondly  I  pursued  " 320 

"  Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce  "     .  320 

Afterthought       321 


XX  .   CONTENTS. 

1821.     Introduction  to  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  .......  321 

Seclusion 322 

Mutability o 322 

Inside  of  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge      ....  323 

Continued 323 

Concluded "    .     .    .     .  324 

1823.     "  Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell "...  324 

1827.     To  Rotha  Q 325 

To ,  in  her  Seventieth  Year 325 

"Scorn  not. the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned'*  .    .  326 

1830.  To  the  Author's  Portrait 326 

1831.  On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 282 

The  Trossachs 327 

The  Pibroch's  Note 327 

Highland  Hut 328 

To  the  River  Derwent 328 

1833.     In  Sight  of  the  Town^of  Cockermouth 329 

Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle     .    .     .  329 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots 330 

"  *  There  !  '  said  the  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride  "  330 

"  Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes  " 331 

1837.  The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario,  at  Rome 331 

1838.  Composed  on  a  May  Morning,  1838 332 

"  Blest  statesman  he,  whose  mind's  unselfish  will "    .    .  332 

1841.  To  a  Painter 333 

On  the  Same  Subject 333 

1842.  "  A  Poet  I  —  He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school  "  ....  334 

Notes 337 

Index  to  First  Lines - 429 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


EXTRACT 


FROM    THE   CONCLUSION    OF    A   POEM,    COMPOSED   IN 
ANTICIPATION   OF  LEAVING  SCHOOL. 

J  1786.  — l8l  5. 

Dear  native  regions,  I  foretell, 
From  what  I  feel  at  this  farewell. 
That  wheresoe'er  my  steps  may  tend, 
And  whensoe'er  my  course  shall  end, 
If  in  that  hour  a  single  tie 
Survive  of  local  sympathy. 
My  soul  will  cast  the  backward  view, 
The  longing  look,  alone  on  you. 

Thus,  while  the  sun  sinks  down  to  rest 
Far  in  the  regions  of  the  west, 
Though  to  the  vale  no  parting  beam 
Be  given,  not  one  memorial  gleam, 
A  lingering  light  he  fondly  throws 
On  the  dear  hills  where  first  he  rose. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


LINES 

LEFT    UPON    A    SEAT    IN   A    YEW-TREE    WHICH    STANDS    NEAR 

THE   LAKE   OF   ESTHWAITE,    ON   A   DESOLATE   PART   OF   THE 

SHORE,    COMMANDING  A  BEAUTIFUL  PROSPECT. 

I795-  — 1798. 

Nay,  Traveller  !  rest.     This  lonely  Yew-tree  stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling  :  what  if  here 
No  sparkHng  rivulet  spread  the  verdant  herb  ? 
What  if  the  bee  love  not  these  barren  boughs  ? 
Yet  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling  waves 
That  break  against  the  shore  shall  lull  thy  mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy. 

Who  he  was 

That  piled  these  stones  and  with  the  mossy  sod 

First  covered,  and  here  taught  this  aged  Tree  10 

With  its  dark  arms  to  form  a  circling  bower, 

I  well  remember.  —  He  was  one  who  owned 

No  common  soul.     In  youth  by  science  nursed, 

And  led  by  nature  into  a  wild  scene 

Of  lofty  hopes,  he  to  the  world  went  forth 

A  favored  Being,  knowing  no  desire 

Which  genius  did  not  hallow ;  'gainst  the  taint 

Of  dissolute  tongues,  and  jealousy,  and  hate. 

And  scorn,  —  against  all  enemies  prepared, 

All  but  neglect.     The  world,  for  so  it  thought,  20 

Owed  him  no  service ;  wherefore  he  at  once 

With  indignation  turned  himself  away, 

And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his  soul 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  3 

In  solitude.  —  Stranger  !  these  gloomy  boughs 

Had  charms  for  him ;  and  here  he  loved  to  sit, 

His  only  visitants  a  straggling  sheep, 

The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand-piper : 

And  on  these  barren  rocks,  with  fern  and  heath, 

And  juniper  and  thistle  sprinkled  o'er. 

Fixing  his  downcast  eye,  he  many  an  hour  30 

A  morbid  pleasure  nourished,  tracing  here 

An  emblem  of  his  own  unfruitful  life  : 

And  lifting  up  his  head,  he  then  would  gaze 

On  the  more  distant  scene,  —  how  lovely  't  is 

Thou  seest,  —  and  lie  would  gaze  till  it  became 

Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sustain 

The  beauty,  still  more  beauteous  !     Nor  that  time, 

When  Nature  had  subdued  him  to  herself. 

Would  he  forget  those  beings  to  whose  minds. 

Warm  from  the  labors  of  benevolence,  40 

The  world  and  human  life  appeared  a  scene 

Of  kindred  loveHness  :  then  he  would  sigh, 

Inly  disturbed,  to  think  that  others  felt 

What  he  must  never  feel :  and  so,  lost  Man  ! 

On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed, 

Till  his  eye  streamed  with  tears.     In  this  deep  vale 

He  died,  —  this  seat  his  only  monument. 

If  thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 

Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure. 

Stranger !  henceforth  be  warned ;  and  know  that  pride,  50 

Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty. 

Is  littleness  ;  that  he  who  feels  contempt 

For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Which  he  has  never  used  ;  that  thought  with  him 

Is  in  its  infancy.     The  man  whose  eye 

Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one, 

The  least  of  Nature's  works,  one  who  might  move 

The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which  wisdom  holds 

Unlawful  ever.     Oh,  be  wiser,  thou  ! 

Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love ;  60 

True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 

Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought, 

Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  himself, 

In  lowliness  of  heart. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

1798.-1798. 
A  simple  child, 


That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  Girl : 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  nistic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad  : 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; 
—  Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  5 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be?  " 
"  How  many?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?     I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea.  20 

*'  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother ; 
And  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !  —  I  pray  you  tell. 
Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ;  3° 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  M^id, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid. 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 
The  little  Maid  replied, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side.  40 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit,  — 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset.  Sir, 
When  it  is  hght  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay,  5° 

Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  j 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid ; 
And  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  Hes  by  her  side."  60 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
Quick  was  the  little  Maid's  reply, 
"  O  master  !  we  are  seven." 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  Heaven  ! " 
'T  was  throwing  words  away ;  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  ! " 


SIMON   LEE,   THE   OLD   HUNTSMAN; 

WITH  AN   INCIDENT   IN   WHICH   HE   WAS    CONCERNED. 
1798.  — 1798. 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 
An  old  Man  dwells,  a  little  man,  — 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound. 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee 

When  Echo  bandied  round  and  round 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind ; 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reeled,  and  was  stone-blind.  20 

And  still  there 's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices  ! 

But,  oh  the  heavy  change  !  —  bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred,  see  ! 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty. 

His  Master 's  dead,  —  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ;  30 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry. 

Rests  upon  ankles  swollen  and  thick ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one : 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman. 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  Common.  40' 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  9 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger ; 
But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer? 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ;  5° 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labor  could  not  wean  them, 

'T  is  little,  very  little  —  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store. 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell.  60 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you  've  waited. 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  Reader  !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

O  gentle  Reader  !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it :  70 

It  is  no  tale ;  but,  should  you  think^ 

Perhaps  a  tale  you  '11  make  it. 


10  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

One  summer  day  I  chanced  to  see 

This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 

To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 

A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand ; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavor, 

That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 

He  might  have  worked  forever.  80 

"  You  're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
.  Received  my  proffered  aid. 
I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  severed. 
At  which  the  poor  old  Man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavored. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 

And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run  90 

So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 

They  never  would  have  done. 

—  I  've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 

With  coldness  still  returning ; 

Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 

Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  ii 


LINES  WRITTEN   IN   EARLY  SPRING. 

1798.  — 1798. 

I  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower. 

The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths ;  i* 

And  't  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 

Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  :  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made, 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 

To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there.  20 


12  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

If  this  belief  from  Heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 


TO   MY   SISTER. 
1798.  — 1798. 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March : 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before, 
The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air. 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  Sister  !  ('t  is  a  wish  of  mine) 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you  —  and,  pray. 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress ; 
And  bring  no  book :  for  this  one  day 
We  '11  give  to  idleness. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  13 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 

Our  living  calendar : 

We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 

The  opening  of  the  year.  20 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 

From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 

From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth : 

—  It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  years  of  toiling  reason  : 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 

Which  they  shall  long  obey  :  2P 

We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 

Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We  '11  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls : 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  Sister  !  come,  I  pray. 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress ; 

—  And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  day 

We  '11  give  to  idleness.  4o 


14  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

EXPOSTULATION   AND   REPLY. 

1798.-1798. 

*'  Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day. 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 

"  Where  are  your  books?  —  that  light  bequeathed 

To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind  ! 

Up  !  up  !  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 

From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"  You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 

As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ;  10 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 

And  none  had  lived  before  you  ! " 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  I  made  reply  : 

"  The  eye  —  it  cannot  choose  but  see ; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 

Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be. 

Against  or  with  our  will.  20 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  15 

"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

"  —  Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 
Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone. 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE  TABLES  TURNED: 

AN  EVENING  SCENE   ON  THE   SAME   SUBJECT. 
1798.  — 1798. 

Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books  ; 
Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 


l6  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Books  !  't  is  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet,  lo 

How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life, 

There  's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings  ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things. 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 

Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless  — 

Spontaneous  wisdom"  breathest  by  health, 

Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  20 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man. 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good. 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ; 
Our  meddling  intellect 

Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things  :  — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ;  3^ 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 

That  watches  and  receives. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  17 


LINES, 

COMPOSED   A  FEW   MILES   ABOVE   TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON  REVISIT- 
ING THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING  A  TOUR,  JuLY  I3,  1 798. 

1798.  — 1798. 

Five  years  have  passed ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  agam  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  ft-om  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.  —  Once  again 

■■^_— • — ^t—-"" — ■  • 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  moic^  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when^_a^ain  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view  10 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once^^^gaiii  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  —  hardly  hedge-rows,  httle  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door  ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees. 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

^  .  These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 


1 8  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them. 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  ;  —  feelings  too  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
■  On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime,  —  that  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unint  elligibl  eworld  40 

Is  lightened,  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and_become  a  living  soul ; 
While_with^n_eye^jnade  gnvet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things^  "^ 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft  —  5° 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  19 

Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 

Hov^^ft^Jn^pirit,^  haye^ 

OsylvairWye  !  thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, 

How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years!     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 
I  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  Nature  led  :  more  like  a  man  70 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  Nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by)  j^ 
To  me  was  all  in  all.  — (I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm. 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That  time  is  past, 


20  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on_nature^_not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youthj^_bu]Ji£armg_oftentimes  9c» 

The  stilpahl  niusiTof  humanityj 

Nor  harsh  noj^rati^pg,  though  of  ample  power 

"o  chasten  and  subdue/^  And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  distHros  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  loo 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

Lnd  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  no 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  21 

For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 

Of  this  fair  river  —  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 

My  dear,  dear  Friend  !  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 

My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 

Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 

May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 

My  dear,  dear  Sister  !  and  this  prayer  I  make 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her ;  't  is  her  privilege 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 


22  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance  — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  1 5° 

We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love.  —  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 


THE  OLD   CUMBERLAND   BEGGAR. 

The  Class  of  Beggars  to  which  the  Old  Man  here  described  belongs 
will  probably  soon  be  extinct.  It  consisted  of  poor,  and  mostly  old 
and  infirm  persons,  who  confined  themselves  to  a  stated  round  in 
their  neighborhood,  and  had  certain  fixed  days  on  which,  at  different 
houses,  they  regularly  received  alms,  sometimes  in  money,  but 
mostly  in  provisions. 

1 798. -1 798. 

I  SAW  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk ; 
And  he  was  seated  by  the  highway  side, 
On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 
Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  23 

Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  road 

May  thence  remount  at  ease.     The  aged  man 

Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 

That  overlays  the  pile  ;  and,  from  a  bag 

All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 

He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one,  10 

And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  serious  look 

Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun. 

Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile. 

Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills. 

He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude  : 

And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand. 

That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 

Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 

Fell  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  small  mountain  birds, 

Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal,  20 

Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known ;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now. 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  horseman  throws  not  with  a  slack 
And  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground. 
But  stops,  —  that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so. 
But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein,  3° 

Watches  the  aged  Beggar  with  a  look 
Sidelong,  and  half-reverted.     She  who  tends 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 


24  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 

And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 

The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 

The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane, 

Shouts  to  him  from  behind ;  and,  if  thus  warned, 

The  old  man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  boy        40 

Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  roadside, 

And  passes  gently  by,  without  a  curse 

Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart. 

He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man  ; 
His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  ground  ;  and,  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale 
And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth  50 

Is  all  his  prospect.     Thus,  from  day  to  day, 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  forever  on  the  ground. 
He  plies  his  weary  journey  ;  seeing  still. 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw, 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  track. 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot-wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road,  —  in  the  same  line. 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  traveller  ! 
His  staff  trails  with  him ;  scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust ;  he  is  so  still  60 

In  look  and  motion  that  the  cottage  curs. 
Ere  he  has  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away. 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls. 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  25 

And  urchins  newly  breeched  —  all  pass  him  by  ; 
Him  even  the  slow-paced  wagon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  man  useless.  —  Statesmen  !  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances ;  ye  proud,  7o 

Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  or  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burden  of  the  earth  !    'T  is  Nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good,  —  a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.     Then  be  assured 
That  least  of  all  can  aught,  that  ever  owned  80 

The  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
Which  man  is  bom  to,  sink,  howe'er  depressed. 
So  low  as  to  be  scorned  without  a  sin ; 
Without  offence  to  God  cast  out  of  view, 
Like  the  dry  remnant  of  a  garden-flower 
Whose  seeds  are  shed,  or  as  an  implement 
Worn  out  and  worthless.     While  from  door  to  door 
This  old  man  creeps,  the  villagers  in  him 
Behold  a  record  which  together  binds 
Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity,  9° 

Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 
And  that  half-wisdom  half-experience  gives, 
Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 


26  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH, 

To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 

Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 

Hamlets  and  thinly  scattered  villages, 

Where'er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  round, 

The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 

To  acts  of  love,  and  habit  does  the  work  loo 

Of  reason,  yet  prepares  that  after-joy 

Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 

By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 

Doth  find  herself  insensibly  disposed 

To  virtue  and  true  goodness. 

Some  there  are, 
By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 
And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 
And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 
Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle :  even  such  minds 
In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  being,  no 

Or  from  like  wanderer,  haply  have  received 
(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 
Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do  !) 
That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy^and  thought, 
In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world 
Where  want  and  sorrow  were.     The  easy  man 
Who  sits  at  his  own  door,  and,  like  the  pear 
That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall. 
Feeds  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  robust  and  young, 
The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live  120 

Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  litde  grove 
Of  their  own  kindred,  —  all  behold  in  him 
A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 
Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  27 

Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart 

Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 

His  charters  and  exemptions  ;  and,  perchance, 

Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 

And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 

His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up  130 

The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least, 

And  't  is  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 

Yet  further.  —  Many,  I  believe,  there  are 
Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 
Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 
No  self-reproach  ;  who  of  the  moral  law 
Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 
Are  strict  observers  ;  and  not  negligent 
In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell, 
Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  their  blood.  140 

Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace  ! 

—  But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor ; 
Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here. 

In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 

And  these  inevitable  charities. 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul  ? 

No,  man  is  dear  to  man ;  the  poorest  poor 

Long  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been, 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out  150 

Of  some  small  blessings ;  have  been  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause. 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 

—  Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  being  known, 


28  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

My  neighbor,  when  with  punctual  care  each  week, 

Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 

By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 

Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 

Of  this  old  mendicant,  and  from  her  door 

Returning  with  exhilarated  heart,  i6o 

Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And  while,  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Unblamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him  ;  and  while  life  is  his. 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts.  170 

—  Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys  ;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  gray  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry, 
Make  him  a  captive  !  —  for  that  pent-up  din,  180 

Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air. 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  ! 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes. 
And  hg.ve  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  29 

The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 

Few  are  his  pleasures  :  if  his  eyes  have  now 

Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  upon  earth 

That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 

The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 

Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least  190 

Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 

And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 

Beneath  the  trees,  or  on  a  grassy  bank 

Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 

Share  his  chance-gathered  meal ;  and,  finally, 

As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 

So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die  ! 


ANIMAL  TRANQUILLITY  AND   DECAY. 

1798. —  1798. 

The  little  hedge -row  birds. 
That  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
He  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step, 
His  gait,  his  one  expression,  —  every  limb, 
His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak 
A  man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 
With  thought.      He  is  insensibly  subdued 
To  settled  quiet ;  he  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten ;  one  to  whom 
Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given 
That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  thing  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.     He  is  by  Nature  led 
To  peace  so  perfect  that  the  young  behold 
With  envy  what  the  old  man  hardly  feels. 


30  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

NUTTING. 

1799.  —  iSoo. 
It  seems  a  day 


(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out), 

One  of  those  heavenly  days  that  cannot  die ; 

When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 

I  left  our  cottage  threshold,  sallying  forth 

With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulders  slung, 

A  nutting-crook  in  hand,  and  turned  my  step 

Toward  some  far-distant  wood,  a  figure  quaint. 

Tricked  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off  weeds, 

Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded,  10 

By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  dame,  — 

Motley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 

At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles,  and,  in  truth. 

More  ragged  than  need  was  !     O'er  pathless  rocks. 

Through  beds  of  matted  fern  and  tangled  thickets, 

Forcing  my  way,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 

Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 

Drooped  with  its  withered  leaves,  ungracious  sign 

Of  devastation  ;  but  the  hazels  rose 

Tall  and  erect,  with  tempting  clusters  hung,  20 

A  virgin  scene  !   \K  littlewKile  I  stood, 

BreatKmf^Si  such  suppression  of  the  heart 

As  joy  delights  in ;  and  with  wise  restraint. 

Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 

The  banquet ;  or  beneath  the  trees  I  sate 

Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers  I  played,  — 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  31 

A  temper  known  to  those  who,  after  long 

And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 

With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope.       — — 

Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose  leaves  30 

The  violets  of  five  seasons  reappear 

And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye ; 

Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 

Forever ;  and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam. 

And,  with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green  stones 

That,  fleeced  with  moss,  under  the  shady  trees, 

Lay  round  me,  scattered  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 

I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring  sound, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 

Tribute  to  ease  ;  and  of  its  joy  secure,  40 

The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 

And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose. 

And  dragged  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough,  with  crash 

And  merciless  ravage  ;  and  the  shady  nook 

Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower. 

Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 

Their  quiet  being  :  and  unless  I  now 

Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past, 

Ere  from  the  mutilated  bower  I  turned  50 

Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 

I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 

The  silent  trees,  and  saw  the  intruding  sky. 

Then,  dearest  maiden,  move  along  these  shades 

In  gentleness  of  heart ;  with  gentle  hand 

Touch,  —  for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 


32  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

''STRANGE  FITS  OF  PASSION  HAVE  I  KNOWN." 

1799.  — 1800. 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known ; 
And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  looked  every  oay 
Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 
Beneath  an  evening  moon. 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye. 
All  over  the  wide  lea ;  10 

With  quickening  pace  my  horse  drew  nigh 
Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard-plot  • 
And  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 
The  sinking  moon  to  Lucy's  cot 
Came  near,  and  nearer  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 

Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon  ! 

And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 

On  the  descending  moon.  20 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  33 

My  horse  moved  on  ;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped  : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage-roof, 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  lover's  head  ! 

"  O  mercy  !  "  to  myself  I  cried, 

"  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  !  " 


"SHE   DWELT  AMONG  THE   UNTRODDEN 
WAYS." 

1799.  — 1800. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love  : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 
3 


34  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"I  TRAVELLED   AMONG  UNKNOWN   MEN." 
1799.  —  iSoo- 
I  TRAVELLED  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 
Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 
What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

*T  is  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed, 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played ; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 


"THREE   YEARS  SHE   GREW   IN   SUN   AND 
SHOWER." 

1799.  — 1800. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  35 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,  lo 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm, 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

**  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  j  20 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face.  30 


36  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ;  4o 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


*«A  SLUMBER  DID   MY  SPIRIT  SEAL." 

1799.  — 1800. 

A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years.    - 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  37 

A   POET'S  EPITAPH. 

1799. — 1800. 

Art  thou  a  Statist,  in  the  van 
Of  public  conflicts  trained  and  bred  ? 
—  First  learn  to  love  one  living  man  ; 
Theit  may'st  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A  Lawyer  art  thou  ?  —  draw  not  nigh ! 
Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 
The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 

Art  thou  a  Man  of  purple  cheer? 

A  rosy  Man,  right  plump  to  see  ?  10 

Approach ;  yet.  Doctor,  not  too  near, 

This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  gallant  pride, 
A  Soldier  and  no  man  of  chaff  ? 
Welcome  !  —  but  lay  thy  sword  aside, 
And  lean  upon  a  peasant's  staff. 

Physician  art  thou  ?  one  all  eyes, 

Philosopher  !  a  fingering  slave. 

One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 

Upon  his  mother's  grave  ?  20 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece. 
Oh  turn  aside,  and  take,  I  pray. 


38  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
Thy  ever-dwindling  soul  away  ! 

A  Moralist  perchance  appears  ; 
Led,  Heaven  knows  how  !  to  this  poor  sod  : 
And  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears ; 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God ; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  or  small ;  3° 

A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing, 
An  intellectual  All-in-all ! 

Shut  close  the  door ;  press  down  the  latch ; 

Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 

But  who  is  He,  with  modest  looks, 

And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 

A  music  sweeter  than  their  own.  4°. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew. 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon- day  grove ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  39 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truths  he  can  impart,  —  5° 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak ;  both  man  and  boy, 
Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land ; 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand. 

—  Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength ; 

Come,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave  ! 

Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length ; 

Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave  !  60 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SCHOLARS  OF  THE  VILLAGE 
SCHOOL  OF  . 

1799.  — 1845. 

I  COME,  ye  little  noisy  crew, 

Not  long  your  pastime  to  prevent : 

I  heard  the  blessing  which  to  you 

Our  common  Friend  and  Father  sent. 

I  kissed  his  cheek  before  he  died  ; 

And  when  his  breath  was  fled, 

I  raised,  while  kneeling  by  his  side, 

His  hand  —  it  dropped  like  lead. 

Your  hands,  dear  Little-ones,  do  all 


40  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

That  can  be  done,  will  never  fall  lo 

Like  his  till  they  are  dead. 

By  niglit  or  day,  blow  foul  or  fair. 

Ne'er  will  the  best  of  all  your  train 

Play  with  the  locks  of  his  white  hair 

Or  stand  between  his  knees  again. 

Here  did  he  sit  confined  for  hours ; 
But  he  could  see  the  woods  and  plains, 
Could  hear  the  wind  and  mark  the  showers 
Come  streaming  down  the  streaming  panes. 
Now  stretched  beneath  his  grass-green  mound         20 
He  rests  a  prisoner  of  the  ground. 
He  loved  the  breathing  air, 
He  loved  the  sun,  but  if  it  rise 
Or  set,  to  him  where  now  he  lies, 
Brings  not  a  moment's  care. 
Alas  !  what  idle  words;  but  take 
The  Dirge  which  for  our  Master's  sake 
And  yours,  love  prompted  me  to  make. 
The  rhymes  so  homely  in  attire 
With  learned  ears  may  ill  agree,  30 

But  chanted  by  your  Orphan  Quire 
Will  make  a  touching  melody. 

DIRGE. 

Mourn,  shepherd,  near  thy  old  gray  stone ; 
Thou  angler,  by  the  silent  flood  ; 
And  mourn  when  thou  art  all  alone. 
Thou  woodman,  in  the  distant  wood  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  41 

Thou  one  blind  sailor,  rich  in  joy 

Though  blind,  thy  tunes  in  sadness  hum ; 

And  mourn,  thou  poor  half-witted  boy  ! 

Born  deaf,  and  living  deaf  and  dumb.  4° 

Thou  drooping  sick  man,  bless  the  Guide 
Who  checked  or  turned  thy  headstrong  youth, 
As  he  before  had  sanctified 
Thy  infancy  with  heavenly  truth. 

Ye  striplings,  light  of  heart  and  gay. 

Bold  settlers  on  some  foreign  shore. 

Give,  when  your  thoughts  are  turned  this  way, 

A  sigh  to  him  whom  we  deplore. 

For  us  who  here  in  funeral  strain 

With  one  accord  our  voices  raise,  lo 

Let  sorrow  overcharged  with  pain 

Be  lost  in  thankfulness  and  praise. 

And  when  our  hearts  shall  feel  a  sting 
From  ill  we  meet  or  good  we  miss, 
May  touches  of  his  memory  bring 
Fond  healing,  like  a  mother's  kiss. 


BY  THE   SIDE   OF   THE   GRAVE   SOME   YEARS   AFTER. 

Long  time  his  pulse  hath  ceased  to  beat ; 

But  benefits,  his  gift,  we  trace  — 

Expressed  in  every  eye  we  meet 

Round  this  dear  Vale,  his  native  place.  60 


42  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

To  stately  hall  and  cottage  rude 
Flowed  from  his  life  what  still  they  hold,  — 
Light  pleasures,  every  day  renewed, 
And  blessings  half  a  century  old. 

O  true  of  heart,  of  spirit  gay. 
Thy  faults,  where  not  already  gone 
From  memory,  prolong  their  stay 
For  charity's  sweet  sake  alone. 

Such  solace  find  we  for  our  loss ; 

And  what  beyond  this  thought  we  crave  7o 

Comes  in  the  promise  from  the  Cross, 

Shining  upon  thy  happy  grave. 


MATTHEW. 

1799.  — 1800. 

If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child. 
In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay, 
That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild, 
Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray, 

Read  o'er  these  lines ;  and  then  review 
This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 
In  such  diversity  of  hue 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  43 

—  When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame, 
Cipher  and  syllable  !  thine  eye  10 
Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew's  name, 

Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake, 
Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed : 
For  Matthew  a  request  I  make 
Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made. 

Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 

Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool ; 

Far  from  the  chimney's  merry  roar. 

And  murmur  of  the  village  school.  20 

The  sighs  which  Matthew  heaved  were  sighs 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness ; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 
It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up  — 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

—  Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould  ! 

Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be  30 

That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ? 


44  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

1799.  — 1800. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass, 

And  by  the  steaming  rills,  •         10 

We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 

A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought. 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
So  sad  a  sigh  was  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop, 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 

Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply  :  20 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  45 

A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colors,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that,  sweet  season  gave,  30 

And,  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopped  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen. 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang,  —  she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay ; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more. 

For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 

I  e'er  had  loved  before.  40 

**  And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  church-yard  yew, 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

**  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 


46  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free ;  So 

She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again  : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine  ! " 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 

Methinks,  I  see  him  stand, 

As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 

Of  wilding  in  his  hand.  60 


THE   FOUNTAIN. 

A  CONVERSATION. 
1799.  —  1800. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young. 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke. 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  47 

"  Now,  Matthew  !  "  said  I,  "  let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune  lo 

With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon ; 

"  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  !  " 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 

The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 

The  gray-haired  man  of  glee  :  20 

"  No  check,  no  stay,  this  streamlet  fears ; 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'T  will  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred,  30 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 


48  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"  The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will.  40 

"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free ; 

*'  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth,  50 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved. 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 

The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 

Upon  these  happy  plains ;  60 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  49 

"  And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I  '11  be  a  son  to  thee  !  " 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
"  Alas  !  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side, 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes  70 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


LUCY  GRAY; 

OR,  SOLITUDE. 
1799,  —  1800. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray ; 
And  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 
4 


50  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green  ;  lo 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night  — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do  : 

'T  is  scarcely  afternoon  — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two. 

And  yonder  is  the  moon  !  "  20 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work ;  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow. 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 

She  wandered  up  and  down ;  30 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb, 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  51 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor ; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door.  40 

They  wept,  and  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet ;  " 

—  When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall. 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed  : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same  ;  5^ 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 

—  Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild.  60 


52  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


ON   NATURE'S  INVITATION   DO   I  COME." 

1800.  — 1850. 

On  Nature's  invitation  do  I  come, 

By  Reason  sanctioned.    Can  the  choice  mislead. 

That  made  the  calmest,  fairest  spot  on  earth. 

With  all  its  unappropriated  good, 

My  own  ;  and  not  mine  only,  for  with  me 

Entrenched  —  say  rather  peacefully  embowered  — 

Under  yon  orchard,  in  yon  humble  cot, 

A  younger  orphan  of  a  name  extinct. 

The  only  daughter  of  my  parents,  dwells  : 

Aye,  think  on  that,  my  heart,  and  cease  to  stir ;  10 

Pause  upon  that,  and  let  the  breathing  frame 

No  longer  breathe,  but  all  be  satisfied. 

Oh,  if  such  silence  be  not  thanks  to  God 

For  what  hath  been  bestowed,  then  where,  where  then 

Shall  gratitude  find  rest  ?     Mine  eyes  did  ne'er 

Fix  on  a  lovely  object,  nor  my  mind 

Take  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  happy  thought. 

But  either  she,  whom  now  I  have,  who  now 

Divides  with  me  that  loved  abode,  was  there, 

Or  not  far  off.    Where'er  my  footsteps  turned,  20 

Her  voice  was  like  a  hidden  bird  that  sang ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  53 

The  thought  of  her  was  like  a  flash  of  light, 

Or  an  unseen  companionship  ;  a  breath 

Or  fragrance  independent  of  the  wind. 

In  all  my  goings,  in  the  new  and  old 

Of  all  my  meditations,  and  in  this 

Favorite  of  all,  in  this  the  most  of  all.  .  .  . 

Embrace  me  then,  ye  hills,  and  close  me  in.  , 

Now  in  the  clear  and  open  day  I  feel  '' 

Your  guardianship  :  I  take  it  to  my  heart ;  30 

'T  is  like  the  solemn  shelter  of  the  night. 

But  I  would  call  thee  beautiful ;  for  mild 

And  soft,  and  gay,  and  beautiful  thou  art. 

Dear  valley,  having  in  thy  face  a  smile. 

Though  peaceful,  full  of  gladness.     Thou  art  pleased, 

Pleased  with  thy  crags,  and  woody  steeps,  thy  lake, 

Its  one  green  island,  and  its  winding  shores, 

The  multitude  of  little  rocky  hills. 

Thy  church,  and  cottages  of  mountain  stone 

Clustered  like  stars  some  few,  but  single  most,  40 

And  lurking  dimly  in  their  shy  retreats, 

Or  glancing  at  each  other  cheerful  looks 

Like  separated  stars  with  clouds  between. 


"BLEAK  SEASON   WAS   IT,  TURBULENT  AND 
WILD." 

i8oo(?).  — 1850. 

Bleak  season  was  it,  turbulent  and  wild. 
When  hitherward  we  journeyed,  side  by  side, 
Through  bursts  of  sunshine  and  through  flying  showers, 


y 


54  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Paced  the  long  vales,  —  how  long  they  were,  and  yet 

How  fast  that  length  of  way  was  left  behind  !  — 

Wensley's  rich  dale,  and  Sedberge's  naked  heights. 

The  frosty  wind,  as  if  to  make  amends 

For  its  keen  breath,  was  aiding  to  our  steps, 

And  drove  us  onward  as  two  ships  at  sea ; 

Or  like  two  birds,  companions  in  mid-air,  lo 

Parted  and  reunited  by  the  blast. 

Stern  was  the  face  of  Nature  ;  we  rejoiced 

In  that  stem  countenance  ;  for  our  souls  thence  drew 

A  feeling  of  their  strength. 

The  naked  trees, 
The  icy  brooks,  as  on  we  passed,  appeared 
To  question  us,  "Whence  come  ye,  to  what  end?" 


HART-LEAP  WELL. 

Hart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring  of  water,  about  five  miles  from 
Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and  near  the  side  of  the  road  that  leads 
from  Richmond  to  Askrigg.  Its  name  is  derived  from  a  remarkal:)]e 
Chase,  the  memory  of  which  is  preserved  by  the  monuments  spoken 
of  in  the  second  part  of  the  following  Poem,  which  monuments  do 
now  exist  as  I  have  there  described  them. 

1800.  —  1800. 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud, 
And  now,  as  he  approached  a  vassal's  door, 
"  Bring  forth  another  horse  ! "  he  cried  aloud. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  5$ 

"  Another  horse  !  '*  —  That  shout  the  vassal  heard, 
And  saddled  his  best  steed,  a  comely  gray ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  him  :  he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  courser's  eyes ; 

The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy  pair ;  lo 

But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies. 

There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  Hall, 
That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar ; 
But  horse  and  man  are  vanished,  one  and  all ; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind. 
Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain : 
Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind. 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain.  20 

The  Knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraidings  stem  : 
But  breath  and  eyesight  fail ;  and,  one  by  one, 
The  dogs  are  stretched  among  the  mountain  fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  the  race. 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  ? 
—  This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  chase ; 
Sir  Walter  and  the  hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  hart  toils  along  the  mountain-side  ; 

I  will  not  stop  to  teU  how  far  he  fled,  30 


40 


56  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died ; 
But  now  the  knight  beholds  him  lying  dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a  thorn ; 
He  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy ; 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned, 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat. 
Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned, 
/  And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet.  ^ 

Upon  his  side  the  hart  was  lying^etched  : 

His  nostril  touched  a  spring  beneath  a  hill, 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had  fetched 

The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  stiU. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 

Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

And  climbing  up  the  hill  —  (it  was  at  least 
Four  roods  of  sheer  ascent)  Sir  Walter  found  50 

Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  "  Till  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  human  eyes  : 
Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  57 

"  I  '11  build  a  pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 

And  a  small  arbor  made  for  rural  joy ; 

'T  will  be  the  traveller's  shed,  the  pilgrim's  cot, 

A  place  of  love  for  damsels  that  are  coy.  60 

"  A  cunning  artist  will  I  have  to  frame 

A  basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell ! 

And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same. 

From  this  day  forth  shall  call  it  Hart-Leap  Well. 

"  And,  gallant  stag  !  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised  ; 
Three  several  pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn  stone. 
And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have  grazed. 

"  And  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are  long, 

I  will  come  hither  with  my  paramour ;  70 

And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 

We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower. 

"  Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail 
My  mansion  with  its  arbor  shall  endure,  — 
The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 
And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure  !  " 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  hart  stone-dead. 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring. 
—  Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he  had  said ; 
And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring.  80 

Ere  thrice  the  moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 
A  cup  of  stone  received  the  living  well  \ 


58  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Three  pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared. 
And  built  a  house  of  pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined, 
Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were  long, 

Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  paramour ;  90 

And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 

Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 

The  knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale.  — 
And  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 

PART   SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade ; 

To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts  : 

'T  is  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 

To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking  hearts.  icx) 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair. 
It  chanced  that  I  saw  standing  in  a  dell 
Three  aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square ; 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a  well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine  : 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  59 

I  saw  three  pillars  standing  in  a  line,  — 
The  last  stone-pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  with  neither  arms  nor  head ; 

Half  wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green  ;  i  lo 

So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 

"  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been." 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost. 

When  one,  who  was  in  shepherd's  garb  attired, 

Came  up  the  hollow :  him  did  I  accost, 

And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  inquired.  120 

The  Shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  rehearsed ; 
"  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  time  of  old  ! 
But  something  ails  it  now  :  the  spot  is  curst. 

"  You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  aspen  wood  — 
Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms  — 
These  were  the  bower ;  and  here  a  mansion  stood. 
The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms  ! 

"  The  arbor  does  its  own  condition  tell ; 

You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,  and  the  stream  :       130 

But  as  to  the  great  Lodge !  you  might  as  well 

Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 


6o  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  There  's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor  sheep, 
Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone ; 
And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 
This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

"  Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been  done, 

And  blood  cries  out  for  blood ;  but,  for  my  part, 

I  've  guessed,  when  I  've  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 

That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  hart.  140 

*^  What  thoughts  must  through  the  creature's  brain  have  past ! 

Even  from  the  topmost  stone,  upon  the  steep. 

Are  but  three  bounds  —  and  look,  Sir,  at  this  last  — 

O  Master  !  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 

"  For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate  race  ; 
And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 
What  cause  the  hart  might  have  to  love  this  place. 
And  come  and  make  his  death-bed  near  the  well. 

"  Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 

Lulled  by  the  fountain  in  the  summer-tide ;  15° 

This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 

When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's  side. 

"  In  April  here  beneath  the  flowering  thorn 
He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing ; 
And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

"  Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant  shade ; 
The  sun  on  drearier  hollow  never  shone ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  6 1 

So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 

Till  trees  and  stones  and  fountain,  all  are  gone."        i6o 

"  Gray-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well ; 
Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine  : 
This  beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell ; 
His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

"  The  Being  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves.  ' 

"  The  pleasure-house  is  dust :  —  behind,  before. 
This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloom  ;  170 

But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

^'  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay. 
That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known ; 
But  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day. 
These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

"  One  lesson.  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what  conceals  ; 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels."  180 


62  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE   BROTHERS. 

1800.  — 1800. 

"  These  tourists,  heaven  preserve  us  !  needs  must  live 

A  profitable  life  :  some  glance  along, 

Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air, 

And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 

Long  as  the  summer  lasted  ;  some,  as  wise, 

Perched  on  the  forehead  of  a  jutting  crag. 

Pencil  in  hand  and  book  upon  the  knee, 

Will  look  and  scribble,  scribble  on  and  look, 

Until  a  man  might  travel  twelve  stout  miles. 

Or  reap  an  acre  of  his  neighbor's  com.  10 

But,  for  that  moping  son  of  idleness. 

Why  can  he  tarry  yonder  ?     In  our  church-yard 

Is  neither  epitaph  nor  monument, 

Tombstone  nor  name,  —  only  the  turf  we  tread 

And  a  few  natural  graves." 

To  Jane,  his  wife, 
Thus  spake  the  homely  Priest  of  Ennerdale. 
It  was  a  July  evening ;  and  he  sate 
Upon  the  long  stone  seat  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  his  old  cottage,  as  it  chanced,  that  day. 
Employed  in  winter's  work.     Upon  the  stone  20 

His  wife  sate  near  him,  teasing  matted  wool, 
While,  from  the  twin  cards  toothed  with  glittering  wire, 
He  fed  the  spindle  of  his  youngest  child, 
Who,  in  the  open  air,  with  due  accord 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  63 

Of  busy  hands  and  back-and- forward  steps, 

Her  large  round  wheel  was  turning.     Towards  the  field 

In  which  the  parish  chapel  stood  alone, 

Girt  round  with  a  bare  ring  of  mossy  wall, 

While  half  an  hour  went  by,  the  Priest  had  sent 

Many  a  long  look  of  wonder ;  and  at  last,  30 

Risen  from  his  seat,  beside  the  snow-white  ridge 

Of  carded  wool  which  the  old  man  had  piled, 

He  laid  his  implements  with  gentle  care. 

Each  in  the  other  locked ;  and  down  the  path 

That  from  his  cottage  to  the  church-yard  led. 

He  took  his  way,  impatient  to  accost 

The  stranger,  whom  he  saw  still  lingering  there. . 

'T  was  one  well  known  to  him  in  former  days,  — 
A  shepherd-lad,  who  ere  his  sixteenth  year 
Had  left  that  calling,  tempted  to  intrust  40 

His  expectations  to  the  fickle  winds 
And  perilous  waters,  with  the  mariners 
A  fellow-mariner  ;  and  so  had  fared 
Through  twenty  seasons  ;  but  he  had  been  reared 
Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  waterfalls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees  ;  and  when  the  regular  wind 
Between  the  tropics  filled  the  steady  sail,  50 

And  blew  with  the  same  breath  through  days  and  weeks, 
Lengthening  invisibly  its  weary  line 
Along  the  cloudless  main,  he,  in  those  hours 
Of  tiresome  indolence,  would  often  hang 


64  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Over  the  vessel's  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze ; 

And,  while  the  broad  blue  wave  and  sparkling  foam 

Flashed  round  him  images  and  hues,  that  wrought 

In  union  with  the  employment  of  his  heart, 

He,  thus  by  feverish  passion  overcome, 

Even  with  the  organs  of  his  bodily  eye,  60 

Below  him,  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

Saw  mountains  ;  saw  the  forms  of  sheep  that  grazed 

On  verdant  hills,  with  dwellings  among  trees, 

And  shepherds  clad  in  the  same  country  gray 

Which  he  himself  had  worn. 

And  now,  at  last. 
From  perils  manifold,  with  some  small  wealth 
Acquired  by  traffic  'mid  the  Indian  Isles, 
To  his  paternal  home  he  is  returned. 
With  a  determined  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  he  had  lived  there  ;  both  for  the  sake  7© 

Of  many  darling  pleasures,  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  has  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 
When,  whether  it  blew  foul  or  fair,  they  two 
Were  brother-shepherds  on  their  native  hills. 
—  They  were  the  last  of  all  their  race  :  and  now. 
When  Leonard  had  approached  his  home,  his  heart 
Failed  in  him  ;  and,  not  venturing  to  inquire 
Tidings  of  one  so  long  and  dearly  loved, 
He  to  the  solitary  church-yard  turned ;  80 

That,  as  he  knew  in  what  particular  spot 
His  family  were  laid,  he  thence  might  learn 
If  still  his  brother  lived,  or  to  the  file 
Another  grave  was  added.     He  had  found 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  65 

Another  grave,  near  which  a  full  half-hour 

He  had  remained ;  but,  as  he  gazed,  there  grew 

Such  a  confusion  in  his  memory, 

That  he  began  to  doubt,  and  even  to  hope 

That  he  had  seen  this  heap  of  turf  before,  — 

That  it  was  not  another  grave,  but  one  90 

He  had  forgotten.     He  had  lost  his  path. 

As  up  the  vale,  that  afternoon,  he  walked 

Through  fields  which  once  had  been  well  known  to  him ; 

And  oh,  what  joy  this  recollection  now 

Sent  to  his  heart !     He  lifted  up  his  eyes, 

And  looking  round,  imagined  that  he  saw 

Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 

Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the  rocks 

And  everlasting  hills  themselves  were  changed. 

By  this  the  Priest,  who  down  the  field  had  come,    100 
Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 
Stopped  short,  and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb  by  limb 
Perused  him  with  a  gay  complacency. 
Ay,  thought  the  Vicar,  smiling  to  himself, 
'T  is  one  of  those  who  needs  must  leave  the  path 
Of  the  world's  business  to  go  wild  alone  : 
His  arms  have  a  perpetual  holiday ; 
The  happy  man  will  creep  about  the  fields, 
Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles  no 

Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  fool  upon  his  forehead.  —  Planted  thus 
Beneath  a  shed  that  overarched  the  gate 
Of  this  rude  church-yard,  till  the  stars  appeared 

5 


66  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  good  Man  might  have  communed  with  himself, 

But  that  the  Stranger,  who  had  left  the  grave, 

Approached ;  he  recognized  the  Priest  at  once, 

And  after  greetings  interchanged,  and  given 

By  Leonard  to  the  Vicar  as  to  one 

Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued.  120 

Leonard.   You  live,  Sir,  in  these  dales,  a  quiet  life  : 
Your  years  make  up  one  peaceful  family ; 
And  who  would  grieve  and  fret,  if,  welcome  come 
And  welcbme  gone,  they  are  so  hke  each  other, 
They  cannot  be  remembered  ?     Scarce  a  funeral 
Comes  to  this  church-yard  once  in  eighteen  months ; 
And  yet  some  changes  must  take  place  among  you  : 
And  you,  who  dwell  here,  even  among  these  rocks. 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality, 

And  see,  that  with  our  threescore  years  and  ten  130 

We  are  not  all  that  perish.  I  remember, 
(For  many  years  ago  I  passed  this  road) 
There  was  a  foot-way  all  along  the  fields 
By  the  brook-side,  —  't  is  gone  !  —  and  that  dark  cleft ! 
To  me  it  does  not  seem  to  wear  the  face 
Which  then  it  had  ! 

Priest.  Nay,  Sir,  for  aught  I  know. 

That  chasm  is  much  the  same  — 

Leonard.  But,  surely,  yonder  — 

Priest.    Ay,  there,  indeed,  your  memory  is  a  friend 
That  does  not  play  you  false.     On  that  tall  pike 
(It  is  the  loneliest  place  of  all  these  hills)  140 

There  were  two  springs  which  bubbled  side  by  side, 
As  if  they  had  been  made  that  they  might  be 
Companions  for  each  other  :  the  huge  crag 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  67 

Was  rent  with  lightning,  —  one  hath  disappeared ; 

The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still. 

For  accidents  and  changes  such  as  these 

We  want  not  store  of  them  :  —  a  water-spout 

Will  bring  down  half  a  mountain  ;  what  a  feast 

For  folks  that  wander  up  and  down  like  you, 

To  see  an  acre's  breadth  of  that  wide  cliff  150 

One  roaring  cataract !     A  sharp  May-storm 

Will  come  with  loads  of  January  snow, 

And  in  one  night  send  twenty  score  of  sheep 

To  feed  the  ravens  ;  or  a  shepherd  dies 

By  some  untoward  death  among  the  rocks ; 

The  ice  breaks  up  and  sweeps  away  a  bridge ; 

A  wood  is  felled.  —  And  then  for  our  own  homes  ! 

A  child  is  born  or  christened,  a  field  ploughed, 

A  daughter  sent  to  service,  a  web  spun. 

The  old  house-clock  is  decked  with  a  new  face ;         160 

And  hence,  so  far  from  wanting  facts  or  dates 

To  chronicle  the  time,  we  all  have  here 

A  pair  of  diaries,  —  one  serving,  Sir, 

For  the  whole  dale,  and  one  for  each  fireside  — 

Yours  was  a  stranger's  judgment :  for  historians. 

Commend  me  to  these  valleys  ! 

Leoftard.  Yet  your  Church-yard 

Seems,  if  such  freedom  may  be  used  with  you. 
To  say  that  you  are  heedless  of  the  past : 
An  orphan  could  not  find  his  mother's  grave  : 
Here  's  neither  head  nor  foot  stone,  plate  of  brass,     170 
Cross-bones  nor  skull,  —  type  of  our  earthly  state 
Nor  emblem  of  our  hopes  :  the  dead  man's  home 
Is  but  a  fellow  to  that  pasture-field. 


68  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Priest.   Why,  there,  Sir,  is  a  thought  that 's  new  to  me  ! 
The  stone-cutters,  't  is  true,  might  beg  their  bread 
If  every  Enghsh  church-yard  were  like  ours  ; 
Yet  your  conclusion  wanders  from  the  truth : 
We  have  no  need  of  names  and  epitaphs ; 
We  talk  about  the  dead  by  our  firesides. 
And  then,  for  our  immortal  part !  we  want  i8o 

No  symbols.  Sir,  to  tell  us  that  plain  tale  : 
The  thought  of  death  sits  easy  on  the  man 
Who  has  been  born  and  dies  among  the  mountains. 

Leonard.     Your    Dalesmen,   then,   do    in    each    other's 
thoughts 
Possess  a  kind  of  second  Hfe  :  no  doubt 
You,  Sir,  could  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  graves  ? 

Priest.  For  eightscore  winters  past, 

With  what  I  've  witnessed,  and  with  what  I  've  heard, 
Perhaps  I  might ;  and  on  a  winter-evening. 
If  you  were  seated  at  my  chimney's  nook,  190 

By  turning  o'er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 
We  two  could  travel.  Sir,  through  a  strange  round ; 
Yet  all  in  the  broad  highway  of  the  world. 
Now  there  's  a  grave,  —  your  foot  is  half  upon  it,  — 
It  looks  just  like  the  rest ;  and  yet  that  man 
Died  broken-hearted. 

Leonard.  'T  is  a  common  case. 

We  '11  take  another  :  who  is  he  that  lies 
Beneath  yon  ridge,  the  last  of  those  three  graves  ? 
It  touches  on  that  piece  of  native  rock 
Left  in  the  church-yard  wall. 

Priest.  That 's  Walter  Ewbank.      200 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  69 

He  had  as  white  a  head  and  fresh  a  cheek 

As  ever  were  produced  by  youth  and  age 

Engendering  in  the  blood  of  hale  fourscore. 

Through  five  long  generations  had  the  heart 

Of  Walter's  forefathers  o'erflowed  the  bounds 

Of  their  inheritance,  that  single  cottage  — 

You  see  it  yonder  —  and  those  few  green  fields. 

They  toiled  and  wrought,  and  still,  from  sire  to  son, 

Each  struggled,  and  each  yielded  as  before 

A  little,  yet  a  little ;  and  old  Walter,  210 

They  left  to  him  the  family  heart,  and  land 

With  other  burdens  than  the  crop  it  bore. 

Year  after  year  the  old  man  still  kept  up 

A  cheerful  mind,  and  buffeted  with  bond. 

Interest,  and  mortgages ;  at  last  he  sank, 

And  went  into  his  grave  before  his  time. 

Poor  Walter !  whether  it  was  care  that  spurred  him 

God  only  knows,  but  to  the  very  last 

He  had  the  lightest  foot  in  Ennerdale  : 

His  pace  was  never  that  of  an  old  man  :  220 

I  almost  see  him  tripping  down  the  path 

With  his  two  grandsons  after  him.     But  you, 

Unless  our  Landlord  be  your  host  to-night. 

Have  far  to  travel ;  and  on  these  rough  paths 

Even  in  the  longest  day  of  midsummer  — 

Leonard,   But  those  two  Orphans  ! 

Priest.  Orphans  !     Such  they  were  — ■ 

Yet  not  while  Walter  lived ;  for,  though  their  parents 
Lay  buried  side  by  side  as  now  they  lie, 
The  old  man  was  a  father  to  the  boys,  — 
Two  fathers  in  one  father ;  and  if  tears,  230 


70  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Shed  when  he  talked  of  them  where  they  were  not, 

And  hauntings  from  the  infirmity  of  love, 

Are  aught  of  what  makes  up  a  mother's  heart. 

This  old  Man,  in  the  day  of  his  old  age, 

Was  half  a  mother  to  them.     If  you  weep.  Sir, 

To  hear  a  stranger  talking  about  strangers, 

Heaven  bless  you  when  you  are  among  your  kindred ! 

Ay,  you  may  turn  that  way,  —  it  is  a  grave 

Which  will  bear  looking  at. 

Leonard.  These  boys  —  I  hope 

They  loved  this  good  old  Man  ?  — 

Priest.  They  did,  and  truly ;     240 

But  that  was  what  we  almost  overlooked, 
They  were  such  darlings  of  each  other.     Yes, 
Though  from  the  cradle  they  had  lived  with  Walter, 
The  only  kinsman  near  them,  and  though  he 
Inclined  to  both  by  reason  of  his  age, 
With  a  more  fond,  familiar  tenderness  ; 
They,  notwithstanding,  had  much  love  to  spare. 
And  it  all  went  into  each  other's  hearts. 
Leonard,  the  elder  by  just  eighteen  months. 
Was  two  years  taller  :  't  was  a  joy  to  see,  250 

To  hear,  to  meet  them  !     From  their  house  the  school 
Is  distant  three  short  miles,  and  in  the  time 
Of  storm  and  thaw,  when  every  water-course 
And  unbridged  stream,  such  as  you  may  have  noticed 
Crossing  our  roads  at  every  hundred  steps. 
Was  swoln  into  a  noisy  rivulet. 
Would  Leonard  then,  when  elder  boys  remained 
At  home,  go  staggering  through  the  slippery  fords, 
Bearing  his  brother  on  his  back.     I  have  seen  him. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  7^ 

On  windy  days,  in  one  of  those  stray  brooks,  260 

Ay,  more  than  once  I  have  seen  him,  mid-leg  deep, 
Their  two  books  lying  both  on  a  dry  stone. 
Upon  the  hither  side ;  and  once  I  said. 
As  I  remember,  looking  round  these  rocks 
And  hills  on  which  we  all  of  us  were  born, 
That  God  who  made  the  great  book  of  the  world 
Would  bless  such  piety  — 

Leonard.  It  may  be  then  — 

Priest.   Never  did  worthier  lads  break  English  bread ; 
The  very  brightest  Sunday  Autumn  saw, 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts,  270 

Could  never  keep  those  boys  away  from  church, 
Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  Sabbath  breach. 
Leonard  and  James  !     I  warrant,  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
That  venturous  foot  could  reach,  to  one  or  both 
Was  known  as  well  as  to  the  flowers  that  grow  there. 
Like  roe-bucks  they  went  bounding  o'er  the  hills ; 
They  played  like  two  young  ravens  on  the  crags  : 
Then  they  could  write,  ay,  and  speak  too,  as  well 
As  many  of  their  betters  —  and  for  Leonard  !  280 

The  very  night  before  he  went  away, 
In  my  own  house  I  put  into  his  hand 
A  Bible,  and  I  'd  wager  house  and  field 
That,  if  he  be  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 

Leonard.    It  seems,  these  Brothers  have  not  lived  to  be 
A  comfort  to  each  other  — 

Priest.  That  they  might 

Live  to  such  end  is  what  both  old  and  young 
In  this  our  valley  all  of  us  have  wished. 


72  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  what,  for  my  part,  I  have  often  prayed : 

But  Leonard  — 

Leonard.  Then  James  still  is  left  among  you  !     290 

Priest.   'T  is  of  the  elder  brother  I  am  speaking : 

They  had  an  uncle  ;  he  was  at  that  time 

A  thriving  man,  and  trafficked  on  the  seas ; 

And,  but  for  that  same  uncle,  to  this  hour 

Leonard  had  never  handled  rope  or  shroud ; 

For  the  boy  loved  the  life  which  we  lead  here ; 

And  though  of  unripe  years,  a  stripling  only, 

His  soul  was  knit  to  this  his  native  soil. 

But,  as  I  said,  old  Walter  was  too  weak 

To  strive  with  such  a  torrent ;  when  he  died,  300 

The  estate  and  house  were  sold ;  and  all  their  sheep, 

A  pretty  flock,  and  which,  for  aught  I  know, 

Had  clothed  the  Ewbanks  for  a  thousand  years. 

Well  —  all  was  gone,  and  they  were  destitute ; 

And  Leonard,  chiefly  for  his  Brother's  sake, 

Resolved  to  try  his  fortune  on  the  seas. 

Twelve  years  are  past  since  we  had  tidings  from  him. 

If  there  were  one  among  us  who  had  heard 

That  Leonard  Ewbank  was  come  home  again, 

From  the  Great  Gavel,^  down  by  Leeza's  banks,  310 

And  down  the  Enna,  far  as  Egremont, 

The  day  would  be  a  joyous  festival ; 

And  those  two  bells  of  ours,  which  there  you  see  — 

Hanging  in  the  open  air  —  But,  O  good  Sir  ! 

1  The  Great  Gavel,  so  called,  I  imagine,  from  its  resemblance  to 
the  gable  end  of  a  house,  is  one  of  the  highest  of  the  Cumberland 
mountains.  The  Leeza  is  a  river  which  flows  into  the  Lake  of  Enner- 
dale.  —  W.  W. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  73 

This  is  sad  talk ;  they  '11  never  sound  for  him  — 

Living  or  dead.     When  last  we  heard  of  him, 

He  was  in  slavery  among  the  Moors 

Upon  the  Barbary  coast.     'T  was  not  a  little 

That  would  bring  down  his  spirit ;  and  no  doubt, 

Before  it  endeth  in  his  death,  the  Youth  320 

Was  sadly  crossed.     Poor  Leonard  !  when  we  parted, 

He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said  to  me, 

If  e'er  he  should  grow  rich,  he  would  return, 

To  live  in  peace  upon  his  father's  land. 

And  lay  his  bones  among  us. 

Leonard.  If  that  day 

Should  come,  't  would  needs  be  a  glad  day  for  him  ; 
He  would  himself,  no  doubt,  be  happy  then 
As  any  that  should  meet  him  — 

Priest.  Happy  !     Sir  — 

Leonard.   You  said  his  kindred  all  were  in  their  graves, 
And  that  he  had  one  Brother  — 

Priest.  That  is  but  ZZo 

A  fellow-tale  of  sorrow.     From  his  youth 
James,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate  j 
And  Leonard  being  always  by  his  side 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him. 
That,  though  he  was  not  of  a  timid  nature. 
Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a  mountain-boy 
In  him  was  somewhat  checked ;  and  when  his  Brother 
Was  gone  to  sea,  and  he  was  left  alone. 
The  little  color  that  he  had  was  soon 

Stolen    from    his    cheek;    he    drooped,    and    pined,    and 
pined  —  340 

Leonard.   But  these  are  all  the  graves  of  full-grown  men  ! 


74  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Priest.    Ay,  Sir,  that  passed  away  :  we  took  him  to  us ; 
He  was  the  child  of  all  the  dale,  —  he  lived 
Three  months  with  one,  and  six  months  with  another, 
And  wanted  neither  food  nor  clothes  nor  love ; 
And  many,  many  happy  days  were  his. 
But,  whether  blithe  or  sad,  't  is  my  belief 
His  absent  Brother  still  was  at  his  heart. 
And  when  he  dwelt  beneath  our  roof,  we  found 
(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him)  35° 

That  often,  rising  from  his  bed  at  night. 
He  in  his  sleep  would  walk  about,  and  sleeping 
He  sought  his  brother  Leonard.  —  You  are  moved  ! 
Forgive  me,  Sir :  before  I  spoke  to  you, 
I  judged  you  most  unkindly. 
^^i?  Leonard.  But  this  Youth, 

How  did  he  die  at  last? 

Priest.  One  sweet  May  morning 

(It  will  be  twelve  years  since  when  Spring  returns) 
He  had  gone  forth  among  the  new-dropped  lambs, 
With  two  or  three  companions,  whom  their  course 
Of  occupation  led  from  height  to  height  360 

Under  a  cloudless  sun  —  till  he,  at  length, 
Through  weariness,  or,  haply,  to  indulge 
The  humor  of  the  moment,  lagged  behind. 
You  see  yon  precipice  :  it  wears  the  shape 
Of  a  vast  building  made  of  many  crags  ; 
And  in  the  midst  is  one  particular  rock 
That  rises  like  a  column  from  the  vale, 
Whence  by  our  shepherds  it  is  called  The  Pillar. 
Upon  its  aery  summit  crowned  with  heath. 
The  loiterer,  not  unnoticed  by  his  comrades,  Zl^ 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  75 

Lay  stretched  at  ease  ;  but  passing  by  the  place 

On  their  return,  they  found  that  he  was  gone. 

No  ill  was  feared ;  till  one  of  them  by  chance 

Entering,  when  evening  was  far  spent,  the  house 

"Which  at  that  time  was  James's  home,  there  learned 

That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day ; 

The  morning  came,  and  still  he  was  unheard  of : 

The  neighbors  were  alarmed,  and  to  the  brook 

Some  hastened ;  some  ran  to  the  lake  ;  ere  noon 

They  found  him  at  the  foot  of  that  same  rock  380 

Dead,  and  with  mangled  limbs.     The  third  day  after 

I  buried  him,  poor  Youth,  and  there  he  lies  ! 

Leonard.   And  that  then  is  his  grave  !     Before  his  death 
You  say  that  he  saw  many  happy  years  ? 

Priest.    Ay,  that  he  did  — 

Leonard.  And  all  went  well  with  him  ?  — 

Priest,    If  he  had  one,  the  youth  had  twenty  homes. 

Leonard.     And    you   believe,   then,   that   his   mind  was 
easy  ?  — 

Priest.   Yes,  long  before  he  died,  he  found  that  time 
Is  a  true  friend  to  sorrow ;  and  unless 

His  thoughts  were  turned  on  Leonard's  luckless  fortune,    39° 
He  talked  about  him  with  a  cheerful  love. 

Leonard.   He  could  not  come  to  an  unhallowed  end  ! 

Priest.   Nay,  God  forbid  !     You  recollect  I  mentioned 
A  habit  which  disquietude  and  grief 
Had  brought  upon  him  ;  and  we  all  conjectured 
That,  as  the  day  was  warm,  he  had  lain  down 
On  the  soft  heath,  and  waiting  for  his  comrades, 
He  there  had  fallen  asleep ;  that  in  his  sleep 
He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice 


76  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Had  walked,  and  from  the  summit  had  fallen  headlong ;    400 

And  so  no  doubt  he  perished.     When  the  Youth 

Fell,  in  his  hand  he  must  have  grasped,  we  think, 

His  shepherd's  staff;  for  on  that  Pillar  of  rock 

It  had  been  caught  midway ;  and  there  for  years 

It  hung ;  —  and  mouldered  there. 

The  Priest  here  ended. 
The  Stranger  would  have  thanked  him,  but  he  felt 
A  gushing  from  his  heart,  that  took  away 
The  power  of  speech.     Both  left  the  spot  in  silence  ; 
And  Leonard,  when  they  reached  the  church-yard  gate, 
As  the  Priest  lifted  up  the  latch,  turned  round,  410 

And  looking  at  the  grave,  he  said,  "  My  Brother  !  " 
The  Vicar  did  not  hear  the  words  ;  and  now 
He  pointed  towards  his  dwelling-place,  entreating 
That  Leonard  would  partake  his  homely  fare  : 
The  other  thanked  him  with  an  earnest  voice ; 
But  added,  that,  the  evening  being  calm. 
He  would  pursue  his  journey.     So  they  parted. 

It  was  not  long  ere  Leonard  reached  a  grove 
That  overhung  the  road  :  he  there  stopped  short, 
\nd  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  reviewed  420 

Ml  that  the  Priest  had  said  :  his  early  years 
Were  with  him,  —  his  long  absence,  cherished  hopes, 
And  thoughts  which  had  been  his  an  hour  before. 
All  pressed  on  him  with  such  a  weight  that  now 
This  vale,  where  he  had  been  so  happy,  seemed 
A  place  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  live ; 
So  he  relinquished  all  his  purposes. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  77 

He  travelled  back  to  Egremont ;  and  thence, 

That  night,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Priest, 

Reminding  him  of  what  had  passed  between  them ;   43° 

And  adding,  with  a  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

That  it  was  from  the  weakness  of  his  heart 

He  had  not  dared  to  tell  him  who  he  was. 

This  done,  he  went  on  shipboard,  and  is  now 

A  Seaman,  a  gray-headed  Mariner. 


IT    WAS    AN    APRIL    MORNING:     FRESH    AND 
CLEAR." 

1800.  — 1800. 

It  was  an  April  morning :  fresh  and  clear, 

The  Rivulet,  delighting  in  its  strength, 

Ran  with  a  young  man's  speed  ;  and  yet  the  voice 

Of  waters  which  the  winter  had  supplied 

Was  softened  down  into  a  vernal  tone. 

The  spirit  of  enjoyment  and  desire, 

And  hopes  and  wishes,  from  all  living  things 

Went  circling,  like  a  multitude  of  sounds. 

The  budding  groves  seemed  eager  to  urge  on 

The  steps  of  June  ;  as  if  their  various  hues  10 

Were  only  hindrances  that  stood  between 

Them  and  their  object ;  but,  meanwhile,  prevailed 

Such  an  entire  contentment  in  the  air 

That  every  naked  ash,  and  tardy  tree 

Yet  leafless,  showed  as  if  the  countenance 

With  which  it  looked  on  this  delightful  day 


78  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Were  native  to  the  summer.     Up  the  brook 

I  roamed  in  the  confusion  of  my  heart, 

Ahve  to  all  things  and  forgetting  all. 

At  length  I  to  a  sudden  turning  came  20 

In  this  continuous  glen,  where  down  a  rock 

The  stream,  so  ardent  in  its  course  before, 

Sent  forth  such  sallies  of  glad  sound  that  all 

Which  I  till  then  had  heard  appeared  the  voice 

Of  common  pleasure  :  beast  and  bird,  the  lamb, 

The  shepherd's  dog,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush 

Vied  with  this  waterfall,  and  made  a  song 

Which,  while  I  listened,  seemed  like  the  wild  growth 

Or  like  some  natural  produce  of  the  air. 

That  could  not  cease  to  be.     Green  leaves  were  here ;    3° 

But  't  was  the  foliage  of  the  rocks,  —  the  birch, 

The  yew,  the  holly,  and  the  bright  green  thorn, 

With  hanging  islands  of  resplendent  furze  ; 

And  on  a  summit  distant  a  short  space. 

By  any  who  should  look  beyond  the  dell, 

A  single  mountain- cottage  might  be  seen. 

I  gazed  and  gazed,  and  to  myself  I  said, 

"  Our  thoughts  at  least  are  ours  ;  and  this  wild  nook, 

My  Emma,  I  will  dedicate  to  thee." 

—  Soon  did  the  spot  become  my  other  home,  4° 

My  dwelling,  and  my  out-of-doors  abode. 

And  of  the  shepherds  who  have  seen  me  there, 

To  whom  I  sometimes  in  our  idle  talk 

Have  told  this  fancy,  two  or  three  perhaps. 

Years  after  we  are  gone  and  in  our  graves. 

When  they  have  cause  to  speak  of  this  wild  place, 

May  call  it  by  the  name  of  Emma's  Dell. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  79 

TO  JOANNA. 

1800.  — 1800. 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 
The  time  of  early  youth  ;  and  there  you  learned, 
From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fireside, 
With  such  a  strong  devotion  that  your  heart 
•  Is  slow  to  meet  the  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness. 
And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams  and  groves. 
Yet  we  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind. 
Dwelling  retired  in  our  simplicity  10 

Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you  well, 
Joanna  !  and  I  guess,  since  you  have  been 
So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years, 
That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse, 
However  trivial,  if  you  thence  be  taught 
That  they  with  whom  you  once  were  happy,  talk 
Familiarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

While  I  was  seated,  now  some  ten  days  past. 
Beneath  those  lofty  firs,  that  overtop 
Their  ancient  neighbor,  the  old  steeple-tower,  20 

The  Vicar  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by 
Came  forth  to  greet  me  ;  and  when  he  had  asked, 
"  How  fares  Joanna,  that  wild-hearted  Maid  ! 
And  when  will  she  return  to  us  ?  "  he  paused ; 
And  after  short  exchange  of  village  news. 


80  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

He  with  grave  looks  demanded  for  what  cause, 

Reviving  obsolete  idolatry, 

I,  like  a  Runic  Priest,  in  characters 

Of  formidable  size  had  chiselled  out 

Some  uncouth  name  upon  the  native  rock,  3° 

Above  the  Rotha,  by  the  forest-side. 

— Now,  by  those  dear  immunities  of  heart 

Engendered  between  malice  and  true  love, 

I  was  not  loath  to  be  so  catechised, 

And  this  was  my  reply  :  —  "As  it  befell, 

One  summer  morning  we  had  walked  abroad 

At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 

—  'T  was  that  delightful  season  when  the  broom. 
Full-flowered,  and  visible  in  every  steep, 

Along  the  copses  runs  in  veins  of  gold.  40 

Our  pathway  led  us  on  to  Rotha's  banks ; 

And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that  tall  rock 

That  eastward  looks,  I  there  stopped  short,  and  stood 

Tracing  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 

From  base  to  summit :  such  delight  I  found 

To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower. 

That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues. 

Along  so  vast  a  surface,  all  at  once, 

In  one  iuipression,  by  connecting  force 

Of  their  own  beauty,  imaged  in  the  heart.  5° 

—  When  I  had  gazed  perhaps  two  minutes'  space, 
Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 

That  ravishment  of  mine,  and  laughed  aloud. 
The  Rock,  like  something  starting  from  a  sleep, 
Took  up  the  Lady's  voice  and  laughed  again ; 
That  ancient  Woman  seated  on  Helm-crag, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  Zl 

Was  ready  with  her  cavern  ;  Hammar-scar 

And  the  tall  Steep  of  Silver-how  sent  forth 

A  noise  of  laughter  ;  southern  Loughrigg  heard, 

And  Fairfield  answered  with  a  mountain  tone ;  60 

Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 

Carried  the  Lady's  voice ;  old  Skiddaw  blew 

His  speaking  trumpet ;  back  out  of  the  clouds 

Of  Glaramara  southward  come  the  voice  ; 

And  Kirkstone  tossed  it  from  his  misty  head. 

—  Now  whether  (said  I  to  our  cordial  Friend, 
Who  in  the  hey-day  of  astonishment 
Smiled  in  my  face)  this  were  in  simple  truth 

A  work  accomplished  by  the  brotherhood 

Of  ancient  mountains,  or  my  ear  was  touched  70 

With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses 

To  me  alone  imparted,  sure  I  am 

That  there  was  a  loud  uproar  in  the  hills. 

And  while  we  both  were  listening,  to  my  side 

The  fair  Joanna  drew,  as  if  she  wished 

To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her  fear. 

—  And  hence,  long  afterwards,  when  eighteen  moons 
Were  wasted,  as  I  chanced  to  walk  alone 

Beneath  this  rock,  at  sunrise,  on  a  calm 

And  silent  morning,  I  sat  down,  and -there,  80 

In  memory  of  affections  old  and  true, 

I  chiselled  out  in  those  rude  characters 

Joanna's  name  deep  in  the  living  stone ; 

And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fireside. 

Have  called  the  lovely  rock,  Joanna's  Rock." 


82  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"THERE   IS  AN   EMINENCE." 

1800.  — 1800. 

There  is  an  Eminence,  —  of  these  our  hills 

The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun ; 

We  can  behold  it  from  our  orchard- seat ; 

And,  when  at  evening  we  pursue  our  walk 

Along  the  public  way,  this  Peak,  so  high 

Above  us,  and  so  distant  in  its  height, 

Is  visible  ;  and  often  seems  to  send 

Its  own  deep  quiet  to  restore  our  hearts. 

The  meteors  make  of  it  a  favorite  haunt : 

The  star  of  Jove,  so  beautiful  and  large  to 

In  the  mid-heavens,  is  never  half  so  fair 

As  when  he  shines  above  it.     'T  is  in  truth 

The  loneliest  place  we  have  among  the  clouds. 

And  She  who  dwells  with  me,  whom  I  have  loved 

With  such  communion  that  no  place  on  earth 

Can  ever  be  a  soHtude  to  me. 

Hath  to  this  lonely  Summit  given  my  Name. 


MICHAEL. 

A  PASTORAL  POEM. 
1800.  —  1800. 

If  from  me  public  way  you  turn  your  step 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  83 

Your  feet  must  struggle,  in  such  bold  ascent 

The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 

But,  courage  !  for  around  that  boisterous  brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen  ;  but  they 

Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone  10 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and  kites 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude ; 

Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 

But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 

Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 

Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones, 

And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 

A  story,  —  unenriched  with  strange  events, 

Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside,  20 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 

Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 

Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 

Whom  I  already  loved  :  —  not  verily 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel  3° 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 


84  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts ; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale  4c 

There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name  ; 
An  old  man  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength ;  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs  ; 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone  ;  and  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South  50 

Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 
"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me  !  '* 
And,  truly,  at  all  times  the  storm,  that  drives 
The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains  :  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the  heights.  60 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks. 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's  thoughts. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  85 

Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 

The  common  air ;  hills,  which  with  vigorous  step 

He  had  so  often  climbed ;  which  had  impressed 

So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear ; 

Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory  70 

Of  the  dumb  animals  whom  he  had  saved. 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 

The  certainty  of  honorable  gain  ; 

Those  fields,  those  hills  —  what  could  they  less  ?  —  had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love. 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old. 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years.  80 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house  :  two  wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form  ;  this  large,  for  spinning  wool ; 
That  small,  for  flax ;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old,  —  in  shepherd's  phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  Son,  9° 

With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth. 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 


86  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then 

Their  labor  did  not  cease  ;  unless  when  all 

Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk,         loo 

Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes. 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.    Yet  when  the  meal 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 

And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 

To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 

Their  hands  by  the  fireside  ;  perhaps  to  card 

Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 

Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge,       no 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style. 
With  huge  and  black  projection  overbrowed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  lamp  ; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn,  and  late. 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours. 
Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps  120 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes. 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sate, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  87 

Father  and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night 

The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 

Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 

This  Hght  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 

And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life  130 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced, 

Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 

Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 

High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake  \ 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 

And  so  far  seen,  tlie  House  itself,  by  all 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale. 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening  Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years,        140 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate ;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear  — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood  of  all  — 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  decHning  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail.  150 

Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy  !     For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 


88  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness  ;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love,  i6o 

Albeit  of  a  stern,  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young-one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's  stool 
Sat  with  a  fettered  sheep  before  him  stretched 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door 
Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth  of  shade, 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun. 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 

. The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 

There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade,  170 

With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 

Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 

Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 

Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 

By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 

Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old. 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut  i^O 

With  his  own  hand  a  sapUng,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  89 

And  gave  it  to  the  Boy ;  wherewith  equipped, 

He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 

At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 

And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 

There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 

Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help ; 

And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe,  190 

Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise  ; 

Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice, 

Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heights. 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now ;  that  from  the  Boy  there  came       200 
Feelings  and  emanations,  things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind ; 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born  again  ? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up ; 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  vShepherd  had  been  bound        210 


QO  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 

Of  an  industrious  hfe,  and  ample  means ; 

But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 

Had  pressed  upon  him ;  and  old  Michael  now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 

A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for  claim, 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 

More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 

That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost.  220 

As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with  strength 

To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 

The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 

A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 

Such  was  his  first  resolve  ;  he  thought  again, 

And  his  heart  failed  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he. 

Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 

*'  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years. 

And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 

Have  we  all  lived  ;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours  230 

Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 

That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 

Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot ;  the  sun  himself 

Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ; 

And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 

To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 

That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 

Were  false  to  us ;  and  if  he  were  not  false. 

There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 

Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him  —  but  240 

'T  were  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  91 

When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st, 
Another  kinsman ;  he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade  ;  and  Luke  to  him  shall  go,  250 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done  ?    Where  every  one  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained?  " 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There  's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself. 
He  was  a  parish-boy,  —  at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence,        260 
And  half-pennies,  wherewith  the  neighbors  bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedler's  wares ; 
And,  with  his  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there. 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas  ;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor. 
And  at  his  birthplace  built  a  chapel,  floored 
With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands.  270 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 


9^  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  Man  was  glad, 
And  thus  resumed  :  "  Well,  Isabel  !  this  scheme. 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 

—  We  have  enough,  —  I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger,  —  but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth  280 

To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 

—  If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night." 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work :  for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two  nights      290 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep ; 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "  Thou  must  not  go  : 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember,  —  do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 
The  Youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears,  300 

Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  ^Z 

Did  she  bring  forth ;  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work ; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring  :  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy ; 
To  which  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith  310 

He  might  be  sent  to  him.    Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over ;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors  round. 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 
"  He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length  320 

She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold ;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked  ; 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped,  330 


94  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him  :  "  My  Son, 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me  ;  with  full  heart 

I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 

That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 

And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I  will  relate  to  thee  some  litde  part 

Of  our  two  histories ;  't  will  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  touch 

On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.  —  After  thou 

First  cam'st  into  the  world  —  as  oft  befalls  34° 

The  new-born  infants  —  thou  didst  sleep  away 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed  on. 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune  : 

While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.     Month  followed  month. 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed  35^ 

And  on  the  mountains  ;  else  I  think  that  thou 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke  :  among  these  hills. 

As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart ;  but  at  these  words 

He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  Man  grasped  his  hand 

And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so  —  I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak.        360 

—  Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  95 

A  kind  and  a  good  Father ;  and  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  other's  hands ;  for  though  now  old 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together :  here  they  lived, 

As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done ;  and  when 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loath 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould.  zi^ 

I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they  lived ; 

But  't  is  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burdened  when  they  came  to  me ; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled ;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

—  It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  Master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke,  380 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused  ; 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us  ;  and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But  lay  one  stone,  — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope ;  we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  j  do  thou  thy  part ;  390 

I  will  do  mine.     I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resig^ned  to  thee  : 


96  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms. 

Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 

All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone. 

Before  I  knew  thy  face.     Heaven  bless  thee.  Boy  ! 

Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 

With  many  hopes ;  it  should  be  so  —  yes,  yes,  — 

I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 

To  leave  me,  Luke  :  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me      4oa 

Only  by  links  of  love  :  when  thou  art  gone 

What  will  be  left  to  us  !  —  But  I  forget 

My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 

As  I  requested ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 

When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 

Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 

And  of  this  moment  j  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 

And  God  will  strengthen  thee.     Amid  all  fear 

And  all  temptations,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 

May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived,  4io 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 

Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now  fare  thee  well,  — 

When  thou  return' st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 

A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 

'T  will  be  between  us ;  but,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 

And  bear  thy  memory  Avith  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here ;  and  Luke  stooped  down. 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight  420 

The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him ;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept ; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  97 

—  Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 

Ere  the  night  fell :  with  morrow's  dawn  the  Boy 

Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 

The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face  ; 

And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors. 

Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 

That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight.  43° 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing ;  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  Housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So  many  months  passed  on  ;  and  once  again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts  ;  and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour  44o 

He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  Sheep-fold.     Meantime  Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty ;  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses  :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love ; 
'T  will  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart :  45° 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
7 


98  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 

His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 

Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 

He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and  cloud, 

And  listened  to  the  wind,  and,  as  before, 

Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep, 

And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 

And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time  460 

Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 

His  flock  had  need.    'T  is  not  forgotten  yet,         -*i--^ 

The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 

For  the  old  Man  ;  and  't  is  believed  by  all 

That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went. 

And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There  by  the  Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time,        47° 
He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  Husband  :  at  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening  Star 
\    Is  gone,  —  the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 
On  which  it  stood.     Great  changes  have  been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood ;  yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains  480 

Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  99 

THE  WATERFALL  AND  THE   EGLANTINE. 

1800.  — 1800. 

"  Begone,  thou  fond  presumptuous  Elf," 

Exclaimed  an  angry  Voice, 

"  Nor  dare  to  thrust  thy  foolish  self 

Between  me  and  my  choice  !  " 

A  small  Cascade  fresh  swoln  with  snows 

Thus  threatened  a  poor  Briar-rose, 

That  all  bespattered  with  his  foam. 

And  dancing  high  and  dancing  low, 

Was  living,  as  a  child  might  know, 

In  an  unhappy  home.  10 

"  Dost  thou  presume  my  course  to  block  ? 

Off,  off !  or,  puny  Thing  ! 

I  '11  hurl  thee  headlong  with  the  rock 

To  which  thy  fibres  cling." 

The  Flood  was  tyrannous  and  strong ; 

The  patient  Briar  suffered  long. 

Nor  did  he  utter  groan  or  sigh. 

Hoping  the  danger  would  be  past ; 

But  seeing  no  relief,  at  last 

He  ventured  to  reply.  20 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  Briar,  "  blame  me  not ; 
Why  should  we  dwell  in  strife  ? 
We  who  in  this  sequestered  spot 
Once  lived  a  happy  life  ! 


lOO  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH, 

You  stirred  me  on  my  rocky  bed,  — 

What  pleasure  through  my  veins  you  spread  ! 

The  summer  long,  from  day  to  day, 

My  leaves  you  freshened  and  bedewed ; 

Nor  was  it  common  gratitude 

That  did  your  cares  repay.  30 

*'  When  spring  came  on  with  bud  and  bell. 

Among  these  rocks  did  I 

Before  you  hang  my  wreaths,  to  tell 

That  gentle  days  were  nigh  ! 

And  in  the  sultry  summer  hours 

I  sheltered  you  with  leaves  and  flowers ; 

And  in  my  leaves  —  now  shed  and  gone  — 

The  linnet  lodged,  and  for  us  two 

Chanted  his  pretty  songs,  when  you 

Had  little  voice  or  none.  4c 

"  But  now  proud  thoughts  are  in  your  breast  — 

What  grief  is  mine  you  see, 

Ah  !  would  you  think,  even  yet  how  blest 

Together  we  might  be  ! 

Though  of  both  leaf  and  flower  bereft, 

Some  ornaments  to  me  are  left  — 

Rich  store  of  scarlet  hips  is  mine. 

With  which  I,  in  my  humble  way. 

Would  deck  you  many  a  winter  day, 

A  happy  Eglantine  !  "  50 

What  more  he  said  I  cannot  tell. 
The  Torrent  down  the  rocky  dell 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  loi 

Came  thundering  loud  and  fast ; 
I  listened,  nor  aught  else  could  hear ; 
The  Briar  quaked  —  and  much  I  fear 
Those  accents  were  his  last. 


THE   OAK  AND  THE  BROOM. 

A   PASTORAL. 
1800. —  1800. 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean 

Beside  the  babbling  rills  ; 

A  careful  student  he  had  been 

Among  the  woods  and  hills. 

One  winter's  night,  when  through  the  trees 

The  wind  was  roaring,  on  his  knees 

His  youngest  born  did  Andrew  hold  : 

And  while  the  rest,  a  ruddy  quire. 

Were  seated  round  their  blazing  fire, 

This  Tale  the  Shepherd  told  :  —  10 

"  I  saw  a  crag,  a  lofty  stone 

As  ever  tempest  beat ! 

Out  of  its  head  an  Oak  had  grown, 

A  Broom  out  of  its  feet. 

The  time  was  March,  a  cheerful  noon  — 

The  thaw-wind,  with  the  breath  of  June, 

Breathed  gently  from  the  warm  south-west : 

When,  in  a  voice  sedate  with  age, 


102  SELECTIONS  FROM    WORDSWORTH. 

This  Oak,  a  giant  and  a  sage, 

His  neighbor  thus  addressed  :  —  20 

'  Eight  weary  weeks,  through  rock  and  clay, 

Along  this  mountain's  edge. 

The  Frost  hath  wrought  both  night  and  day, 

Wedge  driving  after  wedge. 

Look  up  !  and  think,  above  your  head 

What  trouble,  surely,  will  be  bred ; 

Last  night  I  heard  a  crash  —  't  is  true. 

The  splinters  took  another  road,  — 

I  see  them  yonder,  —  what  a  load 

For  such  a  Thing  as  you !  30 

You  are  preparing  as  before 

To  deck  your  slender  shape ; 

And  yet,  just  three  years  back  —  no  more  — 

You  had  a  strange  escape  : 

Down  from  yon  cliff  a  fragment  broke  ; 

It  thundered  down  with  fire  and  smoke. 

And  hitherward  pursued  its  way ; 

This  ponderous  block  was  caught  by  me. 

And  o'er  your  head,  as  you  may  see, 

'T  is  hanging  to  this  day  !  40 

If  breeze  or  bird  to  this  rough  steep 
Your  kind's  first  seed  did  bear. 
The  breeze  had  better  been  asleep, 
The  bird  caught  in  a  snare  ; 
For  you  and  your  green  twigs  decoy 
The  little  witless  shepherd-boy 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  103 

To  come  and  slumber  in  your  bower ; 

And,  trust  me,  on  some  sultry  noon 

Both  you  and  he.  Heaven  knows  how  soon  ! 

Will  perish  in  one  hour.  5° 

From  me  this  friendly  warning  take.* 

The  Broom  began  to  doze, 

And  thus  to  keep  herself  awake, 

Did  gently  interpose : 

'  My  thanks  for  your  discourse  are  due ; 

That  more  than  what  you  say  is  true, 

I  know,  and  I  have  known  it  long ; 

Frail  is  the  bond  by  which  we  hold 

Our  being,  whether  young  or  old, 

Wise,  foolish,  weak,  or  strong.  60 

Disasters,  do  the  best  we  can, 

Will  reach  both  great  and  small ; 

And  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man 

Who  is  not  wise  at  all. 

For  me,  why  should  I  wish  to  roam? 

This  spot  is  my  paternal  home, 

It  is  my  pleasant  heritage  ; 

My  father  many  a  happy  year 

Spread  here  his  careless  blossoms,  here 

Attained  a  good  old  age.  70 

Even  such  as  his  may  be  my  lot. 
What  cause  have  I  to  haunt 
My  heart  with  terrors  ?    Am  I  not 
In  truth  a  favored  plant ! 


104  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH, 

On  me  such  bounty  Summer  pours, 

That  I  am  covered  o'er  with  flowers ; 

And,  when  the  Frost  is  in  the  sky, 

My  branches  are  so  fresh  and  gay 

That  you  might  look  at  me  and  say, 

This  Plant  can  never  die.  80 

The  butterfly,  all  green  and  gold, 

To  me  hath  often  flown. 

Here  in  my  blossoms  to  behold 

Wings  lovely  as  his  own. 

When  grass  is  chill  with  rain  or  dew, 

Beneath  my  shade  the  mother-ewe 

Lies  with  her  infant  lamb  ;  I  see 

The  love  they  to  each  other  make. 

And  the  sweet  joy  which  they  partake ; 

It  is  a  joy  to  me.'  90 

Her  voice  was  blithe,  her  heart  was  light ; 

The  Broom  might  have  pursued 

Her  speech,  until  the  stars  of  night 

Their  journey  had  renewed  ; 

But  in  the  branches  of  the  oak 

Two  ravens  now  began  to  croak 

Their  nuptial  song,  a  gladsome  air ; 

And  to  her  own  green  bower  the  breeze 

That  instant  brought  two  stripling  bees 

To  rest,  or  murmur  there.  100 

One  night,  my  Children  !  from  the  north 
There  came  a  furious  blast ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  1 05 

At  break  of  day  I  ventured  forth, 

And  near  the  cliff  I  passed. 

The  storm  had  fallen  upon  the  Oak, 

And  struck  him  with  a  mighty  stroke, 

And  whirled,  and  whirled  him  far  away 

And,  in  one  hospitable  cleft. 

The  little  careless  Broom  was  left 

To  live  for  many  a  day."  no 


THE  SPARROW'S  NEST. 

1801.  — 1807. 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade. 
Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid  ! 
On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  dehght. 
I  started  —  seeming  to  espy 
The  home  and  sheltered  bed. 
The  Sparrow's  dwelling,  which,  hard  by 
My  Father's  house,  in  wet  or  dry 
My  sister  Emmehne  and  I 

Together  visited.  10 

She  looked  at  it  and  seemed  to  fear  it ; 
Dreading,  though  wishing,  to  be  near  it : 
Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A  little  Prattler  among  men. 
The  Blessing  of  my  later  years 


I06  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Was  with  me  when  a  boy  : 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears : 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears ; 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears ; 

And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy.  20 


ALICE  FELL; 

OR,   POVERTY. 
1802.  —  1807. 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career. 

For  threatening  clouds  the  moon  had  drowned ; 

When,  as  we  hurried  on,  my  ear 

Was  smitten  with  a  startling  sound. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways, 
I  heard  the  sound  —  and  more  and  more ; 
It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it  as  before. 

At  length  I  to  the  boy  called  out ; 
He  stopped  his  horses  at  the  word. 
But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout, 
Nor  aught  else  like  it,  could  be  heard. 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampered  through  the  rain ; 
But  hearing  soon  upon  the  blast 
The  cry,  I  bade  him  halt  again. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  107 

Forthwith  ahghting  on  the  ground, 

"  Whence  comes,"  said  I,  "  this  piteous  moan  ?  " 

And  there  a  little  Girl  I  found. 

Sitting  behind  the  chaise,  alone.  20 

"  My  cloak  !  "    No  other  word  she  spake, 
But  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept. 
As  if  her  innocent  heart  would  break ; 
And  down  from  off  her  seat  she  leapt. 

"  What  ails  you,  child?  "  —  She  sobbed,  "  Look  here  !  " 

I  saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, 

A  weather-beaten  rag  as  e'er 

From  any  garden  scarecrow  dangled.  ' 

There,  twisted  between  nave  and  spoke, 

It  hung,  nor  could  at  once  be  freed ;  3° 

But  our  joint  pains  unloosed  the  cloak, 

A  miserable  rag  indeed  ! 

^'  And  whither  are  you  going,  child, 
To-night,  along  these  lonesome  ways  ?  " 
"  To  Durham,"  answered  she,  half  wild. 
"  Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise." 

Insensible  to  all  relief 

Sat  the  poor  girl,  and  forth  did  send 

Sob  after  sob,  as  if  her  grief 

Could  never,  never  have  an  end.  40 

**  My  child,  in  Durham  do  you  dwell  ?  " 
She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 


I08  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  said,  "  My  name  is  Alice  Fell ; 
I  'm  fatherless  and  motherless. 

And  I  to  Durham,  Sir,  belong.'' 
Again,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 
Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong ; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak  ! 

The  chaise  drove  on ;  our  journey's  end 

Was  nigh ;  and  sitting  by  my  side,  5° 

As  if  she  had  lost  her  only  friend 

She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

Up  to  the  tavern-door  we  post ; 
Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I  told  ; 
And  I  gave  money  to  the  host, 
To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

"  And  let  it  be  of  duffil  gray, 

As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell !  " 

Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day, 

The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell !  60 


BEGGARS. 

1802.  — 1807. 

She  had  a  tall  man's  height  or  more  ; 

Her  face  from  summer's  noontide  heat 

No  bonnet  shaded,  but  she  wore 

A  mantle,  to  her  very  feet 

Descending  with  a  graceful  flow. 

And  on  her  head  a  cap  as  white  as  new-fallen  snow. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  109 

Her  skin  was  of  Egyptian  brown : 

Haughty,  as  if  her  eye  had  seen 

Its  own  light  to  a  distance  thrown, 

She  towered,  fit  person  for  a  Queen  10 

To  lead  those  ancient  Amazonian  files  ; 

Or  ruling  Bandit's  wife  among  the  Grecian  isles. 

Advancing,  forth  she  stretched  her  hand 

And  begged  an  alms  with  doleful  plea 

That  ceased  not ;  on  our  English  land 

Such  woes,  I  knew,  could  never  be  ; 

And  yet  a  boon  I  gave  her,  for  the  creature 

Was  beautiful  to  see  —  a  weed  of  glorious  feature. 

I  left  her,  and  pursued  my  way ; 

And  soon  before  me  did  espy  20 

A  pair  of  little  Boys  at  play, 

Chasing  a  crimson  butterfly ; 

The  taller  followed  with  his  hat  in  hand, 

Wreathed  round  with  yellow  flowers  the  gayest  of  the  land. 

The  other  wore  a  rimless  crown 

With  leaves  of  laurel  stuck  about ; 

And  while  both  followed  up  and  down, 

Each  whooping  with  a  merry  shout, 

In  their  fraternal  features  I  could  trace 

Unquestionable  lines  of  that  wild  Suppliant's  face.  30 

Yet  they,  so  blithe  of  heart,  seemed  fit 

For  finest  tasks  of  earth  or  air  : 

Wings  let  them  have,  and  they  might  flit 


no  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Precursors  to  Aurora's  car, 

Scattering  fresh  flowers ;  though  happier  far,  I  ween, 

To  hunt  their  fluttering  game  o'er  rock  and  level  green. 

They  dart  across  my  path,  —  but  lo, 

Each  ready  with  a  plaintive  whine  ! 

Said  I,  "  Not  half  an  hour  ago 

Your  Mother  has  had  alms  of  mine."  40 

"  That  cannot  be,"  one  answered,  —  "  she  is  dead ; " 

I  looked  reproof;  they  saw,  but  neither  hung  his  head. 

"  She  has  been  dead,  Sir,  many  a  day." 

"  Hush,  boys  !  you  're  telling  me  a  lie ; 

It  was  your  Mother,  as  I  say  !  " 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 

*'  Come  !  come  !  "  cried  one,  and  without  more  ado, 

Ofl"  to  some  other  play  the  joyous  Vagrants  flew  ! 


WRITTEN   IN   MARCH, 

WHILE  RESTING  ON  THE  BRIDGE  AT  THE  FOOT  OF  BROTHER'S 
WATER. 

1802.  —  1807. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 
The  stream  is  flowing, 
The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter. 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  m 

The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 
The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  !  lo 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  Ploughboy  is  whooping  —  anon  —  anon : 

There  's  joy  in  the  mountains  ; 

There  's  life  in  the  fountains ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone  !  20 


/ 


"MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP." 

1802.  — 1807. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old. 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


112  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE  REDBREAST  CHASING  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

1802.  — 1807. 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  Man  loves  best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 

Our  little  English  Robin  ; 
The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
When  Autumn  winds  are  sobbing? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  Boors  ? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 
The  bird  that  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  their  brother,  10 

The  darling  of  children  and  men  ? 
Could  Father  Adam  open  his  eyes 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies. 
He  'd  wish  to  close  them  again. 
—  If  the  Butterfly  knew  but  his  friend. 
Hither  his  flight  he  would  bend ; 
And  find  his  way  to  me, 
Under  the  branches  of  the  tree  : 
In  and  out  he  darts  about ; 

Can  this  be  the  bird,  to  man  so  good,  20 

That  after  their  bewildering, 
Covered  with  leaves  the  little  children, 

So  painfully  in  the  wood? 

What  ailed  thee,  Robin,  that  thou  could'st  pursue 

A  beautiful  creature, 
That  is  gentle  by  nature  ? 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  I13 

Beneath  the  summer  sky 

From  flower  to  flower  let  him  fly ; 

'T  is  all  that  he  wishes  to  do. 

The  cheerer  Thou  of  our  indoor  sadness,  3° 

He  is  the  friend  of  our  summer  gladness ; 

What  hinders,  then,  that  ye  should  be 

Playmates  in  the  sunny  weather, 

And  fly  about  in  the  air  together  ? 

His  beautiful  wings  in  crimson  are  drest, 

A  crimson  as  bright  as  thine  own ; 

Would'st  thou  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 

O  pious  Bird  !  whom  man  loves  best, 

Love  him,  or  leave  him  alone  ! 


TO   A   BUTTERFLY. 

1802.  — 1807. 

I  'vE  watched  you  now  a  full  half-hour, 

Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower ; 

And,  little  Butterfly,  indeed 

I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 

How  motionless  !  —  not  frozen  seas 

More  motionless  !  and  then 

What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 

Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 

And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  orchard-ground  is  ours ;  10 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister's  flowers. 
Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary  ; 
8 


114  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary  ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 

We  '11  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 

And  summer  days  when  we  were  young,  — 

Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

1802. — 1807. 

Stay  near  me  :  do  not  take  thy  flight ! 

A  little  longer  stay  in  sight ! 

Much  converse  do  I  find  in  thee, 

Historian  of  my  infancy  ! 

Float  near  me  :  do  not  yet  depart ! 

Dead  times  revive  in  thee  : 

Thou  bring'st,  gay  creature  as  thou  art ! 

A  solemn  image  to  my  heart, 

My  father's  family  ! 

Oh  !  pleasant,  pleasant  were  the  days. 
The  time,  when,  in  our  childish  plays, 
My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  chased  the  butterfly  ! 
A  very  hunter  did  I  rush 
Upon  the  prey  :  with  leaps  and  springs 
I  followed  on  from  brake  to  bush ; 
But  she,  God  love  her  !  feared  to  brush 
The  dust  from  off  its  wings. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  115 

TO  THE   SMALL  CELANDINE. 

1802.  — 1807. 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies, 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises ; 
Long  as  there  's  a  sun  that  sets, 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory  ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 
They  will  have  a  place  in  story  : 
There  's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 
'T  is  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 

For  the  finding  of  a  star ;  10 

Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 

Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout ! 

I  'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 

Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 

Litde  Flower  !  —  I  '11  make  a  stir, 

Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  Elf 

Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself; 

Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met, 

I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low,  20 

Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 

'T  was  a  face  I  did  not  know ; 

Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I  may, 

Fifty  greetings  in  a  day. 


Il6  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 

Has  a  thought  about  her  nest, 

Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 

Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 

Like  a  careless  Prodigal ;  30!) 

Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 

When  we  Ve  little  warmth  or  none 

Poets  —  vain  men  in  their  mood  !  — 

Travel  with  the  multitude  : 

Never  heed  them  ;  I  aver 

That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers ; 

But  the  thrifty  cottager, 

Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 

Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home  : 

Spring  is  coming.  Thou  art  come  4^ 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  Spirit ! 
Careless  of  thy  neighborhood. 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane  ;  —  there 's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be. 
But 't  is  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  Flowers, 

Children  of  the  flaring  hours  !  5° 

Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen. 

Whether  we  will  see  or  no ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  117 

Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien ; 
They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine, 
Little,  humble  Celandine  ! 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 

Ill-requited  upon  earth ; 

Herald  of  a  mighty  band. 

Of  a  joyous  train  ensuing,  60 

Serving  at  my  heart's  command, 

Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 

I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove. 

Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I  love  ! 


TO  THE   SAME   FLOWER. 

1802.— 1807. 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 

When  they  lie  about  our  feet : 

February  last,  my  heart 

First  at  sight  of  thee  was  glad ; 

All  unheard  of  as  thou  art. 

Thou  must  needs,  I  think,  have  had, 

Celandine  !  and  long  ago. 

Praise  of  which  I  nothing  know. 

I  have  not  a  doubt  but  he, 

Whosoe'er  the  man  might  be,  10 

Who  the  first  with  pointed  rays 

(Workman  worthy  to  be  sainted) 


Il8  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Set  the  sign-board  in  a  blaze, 
When  the  rising  sun  he  painted, 
Took  the  fancy  from  a  glance 
At  thy  glittering  countenance. 

Soon  as  gentle  breezes  bring 

News  of  winter's  vanishing ; 

And  the  children  build  their  bowers, 

Sticking  'kerchief-plots  of  mould  20 

All  about  with  full-blown  flowers, 

Thick  as  sheep  in  shepherd's  fold  ! 

With  the  proudest  thou  art  there, 

Mantling  in  the  tiny  square. 

Often  have  I  sighed  to  measure 

By  myself  a  lonely  pleasure, 

Sighed  to  think,  I  read  a  book. 

Only  read,  perhaps,  by  me  ; 

Yet  I  long  could  overlook 

Thy  bright  coronet  and  Thee,  3° 

And  thy  arch  and  wily  ways. 

And  thy  store  of  other  praise. 

Blithe  of  heart,  from  week  to  week 

Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek ; 

While  the  patient  primrose  sits 

Like  a  beggar  in  the  cold, 

Thou,  a  flower  of  wiser  wits, 

Slipp'st  into  thy  sheltering  hold ; 

Liveliest  of  the  vernal  train 

When  we  are  all  out  again.  40 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  119 

Drawn  by  what  peculiar  spell, 
By  what  charm  of  sight  or  smell, 
Does  the  dim-eyed  curious  Bee, 
Laboring  for  her  waxen  cells, 
Fondly  settle  upon  Thee, 
Prized  above  all  buds  and  bells 
Opening  daily  at  thy  side, 
By  the  season  multiplied? 

Thou  art  not  beyond  the  moon, 

But  a  thing  "  beneath  our  shoon  :  "  50 

Let  the  bold  Discoverer  thrid 

In  his  bark  the  polar  sea ; 

Rear  who  will  a  pyramid ; 

Praise  it  is  enough  for  me, 

If  there  be  but  three  or  four 

Who  will  love  my  little  Flower. 


THE   LEECH-GATHERER; 

OR,     RESOLUTION     AND     INDEPENDENCE. 

1802.  —  1807. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night ; 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods ; 
But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright ; 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods ; 
Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  broods ; 
The  Jay  makes  answer  as  the  Magpie  chatters  ; 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of  waters. 


I20  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors ; 

The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth ; 

The  grass  is  bright  with  rain- drops  ;  on  the  moors  lo 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth ; 

And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 

Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she  doth  run. 

I  was  a  Traveller  then  upon  the  moor, 

I  sav/  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy ; 

I  heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar, 

Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy : 

The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ  : 

My  old  remembrances  went  from  me  wholly,  20 

And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and  melancholy. 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the  might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go. 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low ; 
To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so  : 
And  fears  and  fancies  thick  upon  me  came  ; 
Dim  sadness  and  blind  thoughts,  I  knew  not,  nor  could 
name. 

I  heard  the  skylark  warbling  in  the  sky ; 

And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare  ;  3° 

Even  such  a  happy  Child  of  earth  am  I ; 

Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I  fare ; 

Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all  care ; 

But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me,  — 

Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  I2I 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant  thought, 

As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood  ; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  unsought 

To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good  ; 

But  how  can  He  expect  that  others  should  4o 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no  heed  at  all? 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  Boy, 

The  sleepless  Soul  that  perished  in  his  pride  ; 

Of  Him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain-side  ; 

By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified  : 

We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness  : 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace,  5° 

A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 

Yet  it  befell  that  in  this  lonely  place. 

When  I  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had  striven. 

Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 

I  saw  a  Man  before  me  unawares  : 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore  gray  hairs. 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 

Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence  ; 

Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy. 

By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence ;         60 

So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense,  — 

Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a  shelf 

Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself; 


122  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Such  seemed  this  Man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead, 

Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age  ; 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 

Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage  ; 

As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 

Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 

A  more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame  had  cast.    7° 

Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and  pale  face, 
Upon  a  long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood  ; 
And,  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace. 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood. 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call. 
And  moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 

Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 

Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned,  80 

As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book  ; 

And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took, 

And  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 

"  This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a  glorious  day." 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  Man  make. 

In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly  drew ; 

And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 

'*  What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue  ? 

This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you." 

Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise  90 

Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet-vivid  eyes. 


^ELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  123 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest, 

But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 

With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest,  — 

Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the  reach 

Of  ordinary  men  ;  a  stately  speech  ; 

Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 

Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man  their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 

To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor,  —  100 

Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  ! 

And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure ; 

From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor  to  moor ; 

Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice  or  chance  ; 

And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  maintenance. 

The  old  Man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side ; 

But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 

Scarce  heard,  nor  word  from  word  could  I  divide ; 

And  the  whole  body  of  the  Man  did  seem 

Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a  dream,  no 

Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent. 

To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  admonishment. 

My  former  thoughts  returned  :  the  fear  that  kills ; 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed ; 

Cold,  pain,  and  labor,  and  all  fleshly  ills  ; 

And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

—  Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted. 

My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 

"  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you  do  ?  '* 


124  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ;  120 

And  said  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and  wide 

He  travelled ;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 

The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 

"  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side  ; 

But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay ; 

Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I  may." 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 

The  old  Man's  shape,  and  speech,  —  all  troubled  me  : 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 

About  the  weary  moors  continually,  130 

Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself  pursued, 

He,  having  made  a  pause,  the  same  discourse  renewed. 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended, 

Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanor  kind. 

But  stately  in  the  main ;  and  when  he  ended, 

I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to  find 

In  that  decrepit  Man  so  firm  a  mind. 

"  God,"  said  I,  "  be  my  help  and  stay  secure; 

I  '11  think  of  the  Leech-gatherer  on  the  lonely  moor  !  "    Mo 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  125 

A   FAREWELL. 

1802. — 1815. 

Farewell,  thou  little  Nook  of  mountain-ground, 

Tliou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 

Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  doth  bound 

One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  grandeur  rare ; 

Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 

The  loveliest  spot  that  man  hath  ever  found, 

Farewell !  —  we  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful  care, 

Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  surround. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  there  will  safely  ride  when  we  are  gone ;  10 

The  flowering  shrubs  that  deck  our  humble  door 
Will  prosper,  though  untended  and  alone  : 
Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have  none ; 
These  narrow  bounds  contain  our  private  store 
Of  things  earth  makes,  and  sun  doth  shine  upon ; 
Here  are  they  in  our  sight,  —  we  have  no  more. 

Sunshine  and  shower  be  with  you,  bud  and  bell ! 
For  two  months  now  in  vain  we  shall  be  sought ; 
We  leave  you  here  in  solitude  to  dwell 
With  these  our  latest  gifts  of  tender  thought :  20 

Thou,  like  the  morning,  in  thy  saffron  coat, 
Bright  go  wan,  and  marsh-marigold,  farewell ! 
Whom  from  the  borders  of  the  Lake  we  brought, 
And  placed  together  near  our  rocky  Well. 


126  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

We  go  for  One  to  whom  ye  will  be  dear ; 

And  she  will  prize  this  Bower,  this  Indian  shed, 

Our  own  contrivance,  Building  without  peer  ! 

—  A  gentle  Maid,  whose  heart  is  lowly  bred, 

Whose  pleasures  are  in  wild  fields  gathered, 

With  joyousness,  and  with  a  thoughtful  cheer,  30 

Will  come  to  you  ;  to  you  herself  will  wed. 

And  love  the  blessed  life  that  we  lead  here. 

Dear  Spot !  which  we  have  watched  with  tender  heed, 
Bringing  the  chosen  plants  and  blossoms  blown 
Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and  weed, 
Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own. 
Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known ;  — 
Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  Nature's  child  indeed, 
Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone. 
Hast  taken  gifts  which  thou  dost  little  need.  40 

And  O  most  constant,  yet  most  fickle  Place, 
That  hast  thy  wayward  moods,  as  thou  dost  show 
To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face ; 
Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know, 
And  say'st,  when  we  forsake  thee,  **  Let  them  go  !  " 
Thou  easy-hearted  Thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and  flowers,  till  we  return  be  slow, 
And  travel  with  the  year  at  a  soft  pace. 

Help  us  to  tell  Her  tales  of  years  gone  by. 

And  this  sweet  spring,  the  best  beloved  and  best ;        50 

Joy  will  be  flown  in  its  mortality ; 

Something  must  stay  to  tell  us  of  the  rest. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  127 

Here,  thronged  with  primroses,  the  steep  rock's  breast 
Glittered  at  evening  like  a  starry  sky ; 
And  in  this  bush  our  sparrow  built  her  nest, 
Of  which  I  sang  one  song  that  will  not  die. 

O  happy  Garden  !  whose  seclusion  deep 

Hath  been  so  friendly  to  industrious  hours  ; 

And  to  soft  slumbers,  that  did  gently  steep 

Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dreams  of  flowers         60 

And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy  bowers, 

Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap. 

And  coming  back  with  Her  who  will  be  ours, 

Into  thy  bosom  we  again  shall  creep. 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN   IN  MY  POCKET-COPY  OF  THOMSON'S   CASTLE  OF 
INDOLENCE. 

1802.  —  1815. 

Within  our  happy  Castle  there  dwelt  One 

Whom  without  blame  I  may  not  overlook ; 

For  never  sun  on  living  creature  shone 

Who  more  devout  enjoyment  with  us  took ; 

Here  on  his  hours  he  hung  as  on  a  book, 

On  his  own  time  here  would  he  float  away. 

As  doth  a  fly  upon  a  summer  brook ; 

But  go  to-morrow,  or  belike  to-day, 

Seek  for  him,  —  he  is  fled ;  and  whither  none  can  say 


.128  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Thus  often  would  he  leave  our  peaceful  home,  lo 

And  find  elsewhere  his  business  or  delight ; 

Out  of  our  Valley's  limits  did  he  roam  : 

Full  many  a  time,  upon  a  stormy  night, 

His  voice  came  to  us  from  the  neighboring  height : 

Oft  could  we  see  him  driving  full  in  view 

At  mid-day  when  the  sun  was  shining  bright ; 

What  ill  was  on  him,  what  he  had  to  do, 

A  mighty  wonder  bred  among  our  quiet  crew. 

Ah  !  piteous  sight  it  was  to  see  this  Man 

When  he  came  back  to  us,  a  withered  flower,  —  20 

Or  like  a  sinful  creature,  pale  and  wan. 

Down  would  he  sit ;  and  without  strength  or  power 

Look  at  the  common  grass  from  hour  to  hour : 

And  oftentimes,  how  long  I  fear  to  say, 

Where  apple-trees  in  blossom  made  a  bower, 

Retired  in  that  sunshiny  shade  he  lay ; 

And,  like  a  naked  Indian,  slept  himself  away. 

Great  wonder  to  our  gentle  tribe  it  was 

Whenever  from  our  Valley  he  withdrew ; 

For  happier  soul  no  living  creature  has  3° 

Than  he  had,  being  here  the  long  day  through. 

Some  thought  he  was  a  lover,  and  did  woo ; 

Some  thought  far  worse  of  him,  and  judged  him  wrong  : 

But  verse  was  what  he  had  been  wedded  to ; 

And  his  own  mind  did  like  a  tempest  strong 

Come  to  him  thus,  and  drove  the  weary  Wight  along. 

With  him  there  often  walked  in  friendly  guise, 
Or  lay  upon  the  moss  by  brook  or  tree, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH,  1 29 

A  noticeable  Man,  with  large  gray  eyes, 

And  a  pale  face  that  seemed  undoubtedly  40 

As  if  a  blooming  face  it  ought  to  be  ; 

Heavy  his  low-hung  lip  did  oft  appear, 

Deprest  by  weight  of  musing  Phantasy ; 

Profound  his  forehead  was,  though  not  severe ; 

Yet  some  did  think  that  he  had  little  business  here  : 

Sweet  heaven  forefend  !  his  was  a  lawful  right ; 

Noisy  he  was,  and  gamesome  as  a  boy ; 

His  limbs  would  toss  about  him  with  delight, 

Like  branches  when  strong  winds  the  trees  annoy. 

Nor  lacked  his  calmer  hours  device  or  toy  5° 

To  banish  listlessness  and  irksome  care  ; 

He  would  have  taught  you  how  you  might  employ 

Yourself;  and  many  did  to  him  repair, — 

And  certes  not  in  vain ;  he  had  inventions  rare. 

Expedients,  too,  of  simplest  sort  he  tried  : 

Long  blades  of  grass  plucked  round  him  as  he  lay, 

Made,  to  his  ear  attentively  applied, 

A  pipe  on  which  the  wind  would  deftly  play  ; 

Glasses  he  had,  that  little  things  display,  — 

The  beetle  panoplied  in  gems  of  gold,  60 

A  mailed  angel  on  a  battle-day  ; 

The  mysteries  that  cups  of  flowers  enfold, 

And  all  the  gorgeous  sights  which  fairies  do  behold. 

He  would  entice  that  other  Man  to  hear 
His  music,  and  to  view  his  imagery  : 
And  sooth,  these  two  were  each  to  the  other  dear ; 
9 


130  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

No  livelier  love  in  such  a  place  could  be  : 

There  did  they  dwell,  from  earthly  labor  free, 

As  happy  spirits  as  were  ever  seen ; 

If  but  a  bird,  to  keep  them  company,  70 

Or  butterfly  sate  down,  they  were,  I  ween, 

As  pleased  as  if  the  same  had  been  a  Maiden-queen. 


"THE  SUN   HAS  LONG  BEEN   SET." 
1802.  — 1807. 

The  sun  has  long  been  set. 

The  stars  are  out  by  twos  and  threes, 
The  little  birds  are  piping  yet 

Among  the  bushes  and  trees  ; 
There 's  a  cuckoo,  and  one  or  two  thrushes, 
And  a  far-off  wind  that  rushes, 
And  a  sound  of  water  that  gushes, 
And  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  cry 
Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky. 

Who  would  "  go  parading  " 
In  London,  "  and  masquerading," 
On  such  a  night  of  June 
With  that  beautiful  soft  half-moon, 
On  all  these  innocent  blisses  ? 
On  such  a  night  as  this  is  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  131 

TO   H.    C. 

SIX   YEARS   OLD. 
1802.  —  1807. 

O  THOU  !  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought ; 

Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a  mock  apparel, 

And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 

The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born  carol ; 

Thou  faery  voyager  !  that  dost  float 

In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 

May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream ; 

Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky. 

Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one  imagery ;  10 

0  blessed  vision  !  happy  child  ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest, 

Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality ; 

And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  !  never  rest 

But  when  she  sate  within  the  touch  of  thee. 

O  too  industrious  folly  ! 

O  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  !  20 

Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 

Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 

Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flocks. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow. 


132  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ? 

Thou  art  a  dew-drop,  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks, 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth ; 

A  gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives,  3° 

And  no  forewarning  gives, 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife 

Slips  in  a  moment  out  of  life. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

1802. — 1807. 

C   In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
■'  From  hill  to  hill  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent. 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy  ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make,  — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  Nature's  love  partake 
Of  Thee,  sweet  Daisy  ! 

Thee  Winter  in  the  garland  wears 

That  thinly  decks  his  few  gray  hairs ;  10 

Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs. 

That  she  may  sun  thee  ; 
Whole  Summer-fields  are  thine  by  right  j 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  Wight ! 
•.         Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 
When  rains  are  on  thee. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  133 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane ; 
Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again  ; 

Yet  nothing  daunted,  20 

Nor  grieved  if  thou  be  set  at  naught ; 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  Zephyrs  choose  ; 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling. 
Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame  j  3° 

Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a  claim 

The  poet's  darling. 

If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly. 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare ; 
He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art !  —  a  friend  at  hand,  to  scare 

His  melancholy.  40 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 
Some  apprehension  \ 


134  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Some  steady  love  ;  some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight ; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right, 
Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  Thee  should  turn, 

I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 

A  lowlier  pleasure,  — 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds ; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

Fresh-smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 
When  thou  art  up,  alert  and  gay, 
Then,  cheerful  Flower  !  my  spirits  play 

With  kindred  gladness ;  60 

And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 

And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt. 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing ; 
An  instinct  call  it,  a  blind  sense, 
A  happy,  genial  influence,  70 

Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  135 

Child  of  the  Year  !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  pleasant  course,  —  when  day  's  begun 
As  ready  to  salute  the  sun 

As  lark  or  leveret, 
Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain ; 
Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men 
Than  in  old  time  ;  thou  not  in  vain 

Art  Nature's  favorite.  80 


ON   THE   SAME   FLOWER. 

1802.  — 1807. 

With  litde  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Daisy  !  again  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy. 
Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face. 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  love  makes  for  thee ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit,  and  play  with  similes,  10 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame 
As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden  of  Love's  court. 


136  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations ;  20 

A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest,  — 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 
That  thought  comes  next,  —  and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over. 
The  shape  will  vanish,  —  and  behold 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold,  30 

That  spreads  itself  some  faery  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star  ; 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest ; 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  !  40 

Bright  Flower  I  for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast. 

Sweet  silent  creature  ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air. 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  137 

TO  THE  DAISY. 

1802. — 1807. 

Bright  Flower  !  whose  home  is  everywhere, 

Bold  in  maternal  Nature's  care, 

And  all  the  long  year  through  the  heir 

Of  joy  or  sorrow, 
Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity. 
Given  to  no  other  flower  I  see 

The  forest  thorough  1 

Is  it  that  Man  is  soon  deprest,  — 

A  thoughtless  thing  !  who,  once  unblest,  10 

Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

Or  on  his  reason. 
And  Thou  would'st  teach  him  how  to  find 
A  shelter  under  every  wind, 
A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 

And  every  season? 

Thou  wander'st  the  wide  world  about, 
Uncheck'd  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt. 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without. 

Yet  pleased  and  willing ;  20 

Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion's  call. 
And  all  things  suffering  from  all. 
Thy  function  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling. 


138  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE   GREEN   LINNET. 

1803.  — 1807.  * 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat, 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together  ! 

One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 

In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest ;  10 

Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  ! 
Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day. 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May ; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds  and  butterflies  and  flowers 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment ;  20 

A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  Air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair ; 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  139 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel-trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies. 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 
There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings  30 

Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives, 
A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign,' 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes.  4o 


YEW-TREES. 

1803.  — 1815. 

There  is  a  Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale, 

Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the  midst 

Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore  : 

Not  loath  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  hands 

Of  Umfraville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched 

To  Scotland's  heaths  ;  or  those  that  crossed  the  sea 

And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azincour, 

Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poictiers. 


I40  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 

This  solitary  Tree  !  a  living  thing  lo 

Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay ; 

Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 

To  be  destroyed.     But  worthier  still  of  note 

Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale, 

Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove  ; 

Huge  trunks  !  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 

Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved ; 

Nor  uniformed  with  Phantasy,  and  looks 

That  threaten  the  profane,  —  a  pillared  shade,  20 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown  hue, 

By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged 

Perennially,  beneath  whose  sable  roof 

Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose  decked 

With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  Shapes 

May  meet  at  noontide,  —  Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 

Silence  and  Foresight ;  Death  the  Skeleton 

And  Time  the  Shadow,  —  there  to  celebrate, 

As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 

With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone,  30 

United  worship  ;  or  in  mute  repose 

To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 

Murmuring  from  Glaramara's  inmost  caves. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  141 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS. 

SEVEN   YEARS   AFTER  HIS   DEATH. 
1803. —  1845. 

I  SHIVER,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold, 

At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold ; 

As  vapors  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 

Strike  pleasure  dead, 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 

Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I  then  thy  bones  so  near 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that 's  here 

I  shrink  with  pain  ;  10 

And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 

Alike  are  vain. 

Off  weight  —  nor  press  on  weight !  —  away 
Dark  thoughts  !  —  they  came,  but  not  to  stay ; 
With  chastened  feelings  would  I  pay 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth 

He  sang,  his  genius  "glinted  "  forth,  20 


142  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

Rose  like  a  star  that  touching  earth. 

For  so  it  seems, 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow, 

The  struggling  heart,  where  be  they  now?  — 

Full  soon  the  Aspirant  of  the  plough, 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  grave.  3° 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved,  for  He  was  gone 
Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shone, 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  Verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 

On  humble  truth. 

Alas  !  where'er  the  current  tends. 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends,  — 
Huge  Criffers  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen,  —  40 

Neighbors  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been ; 

True  friends  though  diversely  inclined ; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined. 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  143 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow ; 

Thou  "  poor  Inhabitant  below,"  50 

At  this  dread  moment  —  even  so  — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sate  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 


What  treasures  would  have  then  been  placea 
Within  my  reach  ;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy,  what  a  rich  repast ! 

But  why  go  on?  — 
Oh  !  spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast, 

His  grave  grass-grown.  60 

There,  too,  a  Son,  his  joy  and  pride, 
(Not  three  weeks  past  the  Stripling  died,) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  Father's  side. 

Soul- moving  sight ! 
Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  delight. 

For  he  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead. 

Harbored  where  none  can  be  misled. 

Wronged,  or  distrest ;  70 

And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh  for  Thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  ofttimes  in  a  devious  race. 


144  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 

Where  Man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  Spirit  in  the  embrace 
For  which  it  prayed  ! 

Sighing  I  turned  away ;  but  ere 

Night  fell  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  80 

Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near,  — 

A  ritual  hymn, 
Chanted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 

By  Seraphim. 


THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED  THE  DAY   FOLLOWING,   ON   THE  BANKS    OF   NITH, 
NEAR  THE  POET'S   RESIDENCE. 

1803.  —  1845. 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 

That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 

Was  wreathed  —  "  The  Vision  "  tells  us  how  — 

With  holly  spray. 
He  faltered,  drifted  to  and  fro, 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  dear  Sister,  throng 
Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long, 
Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 

In  social  grief —  10 

Indulged  as  if  it  were  a  wrong 

To  seek  relief. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  145 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 
Where  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem, 
And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 

Of  good  and  fair. 
Let  us  beside  this  limpid  Stream 

Breathe  hopeful  air. 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight  ; 

Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright  20 

When  to  the  consciousness  of  right 

His  course  was  true. 
When  Wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight, 

And  virtue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand. 
Freely  as  in  youth's  season  bland, 
When  side  by  side,  his  Book  in  hand, 

We  wont  to  stray. 
Our  pleasure  varying  at  command 

Of  each  sweet  Lay.  30 

How  oft  inspired  must  he  have  trode 
These  pathways,  yon  far-stretching  road  ! 
There  lurks  his  home  ;  in  that  Abode, 

With  mirth  elate, 
Or  in  his  nobly-pensive  mood. 

The  Rustic  sate. 

Proud  thoughts  that  Image  overawes ; 
Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause, 
10 


146  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

And  ask  of  Nature,  from  what  cause 

And  by  what  rules  40 

She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 

That  shames  the  Schools. 

Through  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen 

Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen  ; 

He  rules  'mid  winter  snows,  and  when 

Bees  fill  their  hives  ; 
Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 

His  power  survives. 

What  need  of  fields  in  some  far  clime 

Where  Heroes,  Sages,  Bards  sublime,  5° 

And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 

From  genuine  springs. 
Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 

Folds  up  his  wings? 

Sweet  Mercy  !  to  the  gates  of  Heaven 
This  Minstrel  lead,  his  sins  forgiven ; 
The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 

With  vain  endeavor, 
And  memory  of  Earth's  bitter  leaven 

Effaced  forever.  60 

But  why  to  Him  confine  the  prayer, 
When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 
On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share 

With  all  that  live  ?  — 
The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 

Just  God,  forgive  1 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  147 

TO  THE  SONS  OF  BURNS, 

AFTER  VISITING  THE  GRAVE   OF  THEIR  FATHER. 
1803.  —  1807. 

'Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns 

I  sought  the  untimely  grave  of  Bums  ; 

Sons  of  the  Bard,  my  heart  still  mourns 

With  sorrow  true ; 
And  more  would  grieve,  but  that  it  turns 

Trembling  to  you ! 

Through  twilight  shades  of  good  and  ill 

Ye  now  are  panting  up  hfe's  hill. 

And  more  than  common  strength  and  skill 

Must  ye  display,  10 

If  ye  would  give  the  better  will 

Its  lawful  sway. 

Hath  Nature  strung  your  nerves  to  bear 
Intemperance  with  less  harm,  beware  ! 
But  if  the  Poet's  wit  ye  share, 

Like  him  can  speed 
The  social  hour  —  of  tenfold  care 

There  will  be  need ; 

For  honest  men  delight  will  take 

To  spare  your  failings  for  his  sake,  20 


148  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

Will  flatter  you,  —  and  fool  and  rake 

Your  steps  pursue ; 
And  of  your  Father's  name  will  make 

A  snare  for  you. 

Far  from  their  noisy  haunts  retire, 
And  add  your  voices  to  the  quire 
That  sanctify  the  cottage  fire 

With  service  meet ; 
There  seek  the  genius  of  your  Sire, 

His  spirit  greet ;  30 

Or  where,  'mid  "  lonely  heights  and  hows," 
He  paid  to  Nature  tuneful  vows  ; 
Or  wiped  his  honorable  brows 

Bedewed  with  toil. 
While  reapers  strove,  or  busy  ploughs 

Upturned  the  soil ; 

His  judgment  with  benignant  ray 
Shall  guide,  his  fancy  cheer,  your  way ; 
But  ne'er  to  a  seductive  lay 

Let  faith  be  given  :  40 

Nor  deem  that  "  light  which  leads  astray, 

Is  light  from  Heaven." 

Let  no  mean  hope  your  souls  enslave ; 
Be  independent,  generous,  brave  ; 
Your  Father  such  example  gave. 

And  such  revere ; 
But  be  admonished  by  his  grave, 

And  think,  and  fear  1 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  149 

TO  A   HIGHLAND   GIRL. 

(at  INVERSNEYDE,  upon   loch   LOMOND.) 
1803.— 1807. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks  ;  that  household  lawn ; 

Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn  j 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake  ; 

This  little  bay ;  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode  —  10 

In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream ; 

Such  Forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

But,  O  fair  Creature  !  in  the  light 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart ; 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 

Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers  ;  20 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away ; 


ISO  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

•     For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress,  3° 

And  maidenly  shamefacedness ; 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer ; 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread  ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach  4® 

Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 
O  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ;  5° 

Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  151 

More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 

Of  the  wild  sea ;  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 

Thy  elder  Brother  I  would  be,  60 

Thy  Father  —  anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had ;  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompense. 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past,  70 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 
As  I  do  now  the  cabin  small. 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 
And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all  1 


153  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

ADDRESS 

TO  KILCHURN  CASTLE,  UPON  LOCH  AWE. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  a  most  impressive  scene  opened  upon  our 
view,  —  a  ruined  Castle  on  an  Island  (for  an  Island  the  flood  had 
made  it)  at  some  distance  from  the  shore,  backed  by  a  Cove  of  the 
Mountain  Cruachan,  down  which  came  a  foaming  stream.  The 
Castle  occupied  every  foot  of  the  Island  that  was  visible  to  us, 
appearing  to  rise  out  of  the  water,  —  mists  rested  upon  the  moun- 
tain side,  with  spots  of  sunshine ;  there  was  a  mild  desolation  in 
the  low  grounds,  a  solemn  grandeur  in  the  mountains,  and  the 
Castle  was  wild,  yet  stately,  —  not  dismantled  of  turrets,  nor  the 
walls  broken  down,  though  obviously  a  ruin.  —  Extract  from  the 
Journal  of  my  Companion. 

1803.  —  1807. 

Child  of  loud-throated  War  !  the  mountain  Stream 

Roars  in  thy  hearing ;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 

Is  come,  and  thou  art  silent  in  thy  age, 

Save  vi^hen  the  wind  sweeps  by  and  sounds  are  caught 

Ambiguous,  neither  wholly  thine  nor  theirs. 

Oh !  there  is  life  that  breathes  not ;  Powers  there  are 

That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick  in  modes 

Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive, 

No  soul  to  dream  of.     What  art  Thou,  from  care 

Cast  off —  abandoned  by  thy  rugged  Sire,  10 

Nor  by  soft  Peace  adopted  ;  though,  in  place 

And  in  dimension,  such  that  thou  might'st  seem 

But  a  mere  footstool  to  yon  sovereign  Lord, 

Huge  Cruachan  (a  thing  that  meaner  hills 

Might  crush,  nor  know  that  it  had  suffered  harm) ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  153 

Yet  he,  not  loath,  in  favor  of  thy  claims 

To  reverence,  suspends  his  own  ;  submitting 

All  that  the  God  of  Nature  hath  conferred, 

All  that  he  holds  in  common  with  the  stars, 

To  the  memorial  majesty  of  Time  20 

Impersonated  in  thy  calm  decay  ! 

Take,  then,  thy  seat.  Vicegerent  unreproved ! 

Now,  while  a  farewell  gleam  of  evening  light 

Is  fondly  lingering  on  thy  shattered  front. 

Do  thou,  in  turn,  be  paramount ;  and  rule 

Over  the  pomp  and  beauty  of  a  scene 

Whose  mountains,  torrents,  lake,  and  woods  unite 

To  pay  thee  homage  ;  and  with  these  are  joined, 

In  willing  admiration  and  respect. 

Two  Hearts,  which  in  thy  presence  might  be  called     30 

Youthful  as  Spring.  —  Shade  of  departed  Power, 

Skeleton  of  unfleshed  humanity. 

The  chronicle  were  welcome  that  should  call 

Into  the  compass  of  distinct  regard 

The  toils  and  stmggles  of  thy  infant  years  ! 

Yon  foaming  flood  seems  motionless  as  ice  ; 

Its  dizzy  turbulence  eludes  the  eye. 

Frozen  by  distance ;  so,  majestic  Pile, 

To  the  perception  of  this  Age,  appear 

Thy  fierce  beginnings,  softened  and  subdued  40 

And  quieted  in  character,  —  the  strife, 

The  pride,  the  fury  uncontrollable, 

Lost  on  the  aerial  heights  of  the  Crusades ! 


154  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

GLEN-ALMAIN; 

OR,   THE  NARROW   GLEN. 
1803.  —  1807. 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 

Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  narrow  glen  ; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 

But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one  : 

He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death  ; 

And  should,  methinks,  when  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 

As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ;  10 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 

And  everything  unreconciled ; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat. 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 

But  this  is  calm  \  there  cannot  be 

A  more  entire  tranquillity. 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed, 
Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ? 
What  matters  it?     I  blame  them  not 
Whose  Fancy  in  this  lonely  Spot  20 

Was  moved,  and  in  such  way  expressed 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 
A  convent,  even  a  hermit^s  cell. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  1 55 

Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell ; 

It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease ; 

But  something  deeper  far  than  these  ; 

The  separation  that  is  here 

Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 

Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead  ; 

And  therefore  was  it  rightly  said  3° 

That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  ! 

lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 


STEPPING  WESTWARD. 

While  my  Fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walking  by  the  side  of  Loch 
Ketterine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road  to  a  Hut 
where,  in  the  course  of  our  Tour,  we  had  been  hospitably  enter- 
tained some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one  of  the  loneliest  parts  of 
that  solitary  region,  two  well-dressed  Women,  one  of  whom  said  to 
us,  by  way  of  greeting,  "  What,  you  are  stepping  westward?" 

1803. —  1807. 

"  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  "i  "  —  "  Yea.^^ 

—  'T  would  be  a  wildish  destiny, 

If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 

In  a  strange  Land,  and  far  from  home, 

Were  in  jthis  place  the  guests  of  Chance ; 

Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 

Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 

With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ? 


156  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold ; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold ;  10 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind. of  heavenly  destiny  : 

I  liked  the  greeting ;  't  was  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  or  bound  : 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake ; 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy ;  20 

Its  power  was  felt ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  Sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER. 

1803.  — 1807. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  157 

O  listen  !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chant  {a^ 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  }.        10 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt,  />_. 
Among  Arabian  sands  :  /-" 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard  ^^ 

In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird,        ^^(^ 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas  ^ 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


■K. 


Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  ;  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whatever  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 

And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore. 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


158  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


YARROW  UNVISITED. 

(See  the  various  Poems  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Yarrow ;  in  particular,  the  exquisite  Ballad  of  Hamilton, 
beginning,  — 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  Bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow!  ") 

1803.  — 1807. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  "  winsome  Marrow^' 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

*'  Let  Yarrow  ioVs^^frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling,  10 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  't  is  their  own ; 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed. 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

There 's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us ; 

And  Dryborough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus ;  20 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  159 

There 's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow? 

What  *s  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 

—  Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn ; 

My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow ;  30 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"Oh  !  green,"  said  I,  "are  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock. 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 

We  '11  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow.  40 

Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Bum-mill  meadow ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 


l6o  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it :  50 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  : 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We  '11  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 

For  when  we  're  there,  although  't  is  fair, 

*T  will  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 

Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy ;  60 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow. 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show. 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  ! " 


THE   MATRON   OF  JEDBOROUGH  AND  HER 
HUSBAND. 

At  Jedborough,  my  companion  and  I  went  into  private  lodgings  for  a 
few  days ;  and  the  following  Verses  were  called  forth  by  the  charac- 
ter and  domestic  situation  of  our  Hostess. 

1803.  — 1807. 

Age  !  twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  flowers. 
And  call  a  train  of  laughing  Hours ; 
And  bid  them  dance,  and  bid  them  smg ; 
And  thou,  too,  mingle  in  the  ring  ! 


H- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  i6i 

Take  to  thy  heart  a  new  delight ; 

If  not,  make  merry  in  despite 

That  there  is  One  who  scorns  thy  power: 

But  dance  !  for  under  Jedborough  Tower 

A  Matron  dwells  who,  though  she  bears 

The  weight  of  more  than  seventy  years,  i3 

Lives  in  the  light  of  youthful  glee, 

And  she  will  dance  and  sing  with  thee. 


Nay  !  start  not  at  that  Figure  —  there  ! 
Him  who  is  rooted  to  his  chair  ! 
Look  at  him  —  look  again  !  for  he 
Hath  long  been  of  thy  family. 
J  With  legs  that  move  not,  if  they  can, 

^^'A^^'"^^^^  And  useless  arms,  a  trunk  of  man, 
He  sits,  and  with  a  vacant  eye,  — 
A  sight  to  make  a  stranger  sigh  !  20 

Deaf,  drooping,  that  is  now  his  doom ; 
His  world  is  in  this  single  room : 
Is  this  a  place  for  mirthful  cheer  ? 
Can  merry-making  enter  here  ? 

The  joyous  Woman  is  the  Mate 

Of  him  in  that  forlorn  estate  ! 

He  breathes  a  subterraneous  damp ; 

But  bright  as  Vesper  shines  her  lamp ; 

He  is  as  mute  as  Jedborougli  Tower ; 
r-.  c  .     .         .  She  jocund  as  it  was  of  yore,  3° 

' /^  .      ,      ^^    With  all  its  bravery  on ;  in  times 
^^'   /    '  When  all  alive  with  merry  chimes, 

Upon  a  sun-bright  morn  of  May, 

It  roused  the  Vale  to  holiday. 
II 


i62  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

I  praise  thee,  Matron  !  and  thy  due 
Is  praise,  heroic  pjraise,  and  true  ! 
With  admiration  I  behold 
Thy  gladness  unsubdued  and  bold. 
Thy  looks,  thy  gestures,  all  present 
The  picture  of  a  life  well  spent :  ^^s^h^^'f^  4° 

This  do  I  see  ;  and  something  more,  —   -^ 
A  strength  unthought  of  heretofore  ! 
Delighted  am  I  for  thy  sake  ; 
AnZ'yet  a  higher  joy  partake ; 
Our  Human-nature  throws  away 
Its  second  twilight,  and  looks  gay ; 
A  land  of  promise  and  of  pride 
Unfolding,  wide  as  life  is  wide. 

Ah  !  see  her  helpless  Charge  !  enclosed 
Within  himself  as  seems,  composed ;  So 

To  fear  of  loss,  and  hope  of  gain, 
The  strife  of  happiness  and  pain, 
'Utterly  dead  !  yet  in  the  guise 
Of  little  infants,  when  their  eyes 
Begin  to  follow  to  and  fro 
The  persons  that  before  them  go, 
He  tracks  her  motions,  quick  or  slow. 
Her  buoyant  spirit  can  prevail 
Where  common  cheerfulness  would  fail ; 
She  strikes  upon  him  with  the  heat  60 

Of  July  suns  ;  he  feels  it  sweet,  — 
An  animal  delight,  though  dim  ! 
'T  is  all  that  now  remains  for  him. 


N^ 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  163 

;^ 

The  more  I  looked,  I  wondered  more  — 
And  while  I  scanned  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Some  inward  trouble  suddenly 
Broke  from  the  Matron's  strong  black  eye  — 
A  remnant  of  uneasy  light, 
A  flash  of  something  over-bright ! 
Nor  long  this  mystery  did  detain  70 

My  thoughts ;  she  told  in  pensive  strain 
That  she  had  borne  a  heavy  yoke. 
Been  stricken  by  a  twofold  stroke  : 
Ill-health  of  body ;  and  had  pined 
Beneath  worse  ailments  of  the  mind. 

So  be  it !  —  but  let  praise  ascend 
To  Him  who  is  our  Lord  and  friend  ! 
Who  from  disease  and  suffering 
Hath  called  for  thee  a  second  spring ; 
Repaid  thee  for  that  sore  distress         '  ^ 

By  no  untimely  joyousness, 
Which  makes  of  thine  a  blissful  state, 
And  cheers  thy  melancholy  Mate  ! 


ON  APPROACHING  HOME, 

AFTER  A  TOUR  IN   SCOTLAND. 
1803.  — 1815. 

Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere-dale  ! 
Say  that  we  come,  and  come  by  this  day's  light ; 
Fly  upon  swiftest  wing  round  field  and  height, 


1 64  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

But  chiefly  let  one  Cottage  hear  the  tale ; 

There  let  a  mystery  of  joy  prevail,  — 

The  kitten  frolic,  like  a  gamesome  sprite  ; 

And  Rover  whine,  as  at  a  second  sight 

Of  near-approaching  good  that  shall  not  fail ; 

And  from  that  Infant's  face  let  joy  appear ; 

Yea,  let  our  Mary's  one  companion  child  — 

That  hath  her  six  weeks'  sohtude  beguiled 

With  intimations  manifold  and  dear, 

While  we  have  wandered  over  wood  and  wild  — 

Smile  on  his  Mother  now  with  bolder  cheer. 


TO  THE   CUCKOO. 

1804.  — 1807. 
O  BLITHE  New-comer  !    I  have  heard 


I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers,  10 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  1 65 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 


The  same  whom  in  my  schoolboy  days 
I  listened  to  ;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 


20 


To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be  30 

An  unsubstantial,  faery  place : 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  I 


1 66  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM   OF  DELIGHT/' 

1804.  —1807. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair ; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky Jiair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Da\^n ; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay.  10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.         20 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  between  hfe  and  death ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  167 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn ,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 


1*^  Out-did  the^parkling  w^es  in  glee  \ 

A  po^)Could  not. wit  be  ga^, 
^vln  such  a  jocund  c(5mpan 


C 


THE  DAFFODILS;     \     ^., 

OR,    "I   WANDERED   LONELY   AS   A   CLOUD." 
1804.  —  1807. 

^ ,  V*  J_  wXndered  l(5nely  as  a  cloud  *-     ^ 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales^and  hills,  V? 

y      /      ^       y 

When  all  at  ojice  I  saw  a  crowd,  a^ 

^  A  host,  of  golden  daffodils^,  i? 

Beside^he  lake,  bepeath  the  trees^  ^ 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze,  c  ^ 

4^\**^  Continuous  ^s  the_starg  that  shme    o- 
And  twmkle  on  the  niilky  w^  <,         , 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line  1 
Along  the  margin  of  a  b^  :<*-  10 

Ten  thousand  s^  I  at  a  glance/r  ^ 

^^  ♦Tossiilg  their^he^ds  in  spfightly  danceX- 

*The  wa^s  besiae  them  dajiced;  bj^t  they 


l68  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

I  gazed  — ;.and  gazed  ~  butjit^  thoueht 
What  w^lth  the  show  to  me  had  brought 

/  y"  /"         ^ 

For  oft,  wheji  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  dr  in  p^sive  mood. 

They  flash^upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is^the  bfisS/prsdlkudE^;         y 

And  th^n  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

..^'And  dimces  wifti  the  dstffodils. 


20 


THE  AFFLICTION   OF  MARGARET  . 

1804.  — 1807. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone  ! 
Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 
That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 

Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 

No  tidings  of  an  only  child ; 

To  have  despaired,  have  hoped,  believed,  10 

And  been  for  evermore  beguiled,  " 

Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss  ! 

I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss ; 

Was  ever  dar^ess  like  to  this  ? 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  169 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold ; 

Well  born,  well  bred  ;  I  sent  him  forth 

Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace. 

As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base ;  20 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young-one  dream, 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream. 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess  : 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress, 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffered  long 

From  that  ill  thought ;  and  being  blind,  30 

Said,  "  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong ; 

Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 

As  ever  breathed  :  "  and  that  is  true ; 

I  Ve  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 

Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 

Hopeless  of  honor  and  of  gain. 

Oh  !  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door ; 

Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain  : 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes  ;  Af> 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise. 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 


I70  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Alas  !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 
They  mount  —  how  short  a  voyage  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight ! 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea ; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan,  50 

Maimed,  mangled  by  inhuman  men ; 

Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 

Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 

Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep, 

Thou,  thou  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 

An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts ;  but  none  will  force 

Their  way  to  me  :   't  is  falsely  said 

That  there  was  ever  intercourse 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ;  60 

For,  surely,  then  I  should  have  sight 

Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night, 

With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds ; 

I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass  ; 

The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 

Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass : 

I  question  things  and  do  not  find 

One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind  ; 

And  all  the  world  appears  unkind.  70 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  171 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh, 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end ; 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend  ! 


ADDRESS  TO   MY  INFANT   DAUGHTER   DORA, 

ON    BEING    REMINDED    THAT    SHE    WAS    A    MONTH    OLD    THAT 
DAY,   SEPTEMBER    1 6. 

1804.—  1815. 

Hast  thou  then  survived  — 


Mild  Offspring  of  infirm  humanity, 

Meek  Infant !  among  all  forlornest  things 

The  most  forlorn  —  one  life  of  that  bright  star, 

The  second  glory  of  the  Heavens  ?  —  Thou  hast ; 

Already  hast  survived  that  great  decay. 

That  transformation  through  the  wide  earth  felt, 

And  by  all  nations.     In  that  Being's  sight 

From  whom  the  Race  of  human  kind  proceed, 

A  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday  ; 

And  one  day's  narrow  circuit  is  to  Him 

Not  less  capacious  than  a  thousand  years. 

But  what  is  time  ?    What  outward  glory  ?     Neither 

A  measure  is  of  Thee,  whose  claims  extend 

Through  "  heaven's  eternal  year."     Yet  hail  to  Thee, 

Frail,  feeble  Monthling  !  —  by  that  name,  methinks, 


172  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Thy  scanty  breathing-time  is  portioned  out 
Not  idly.  —  Hadst  thou  been  of  Indian  birth, 
Couched  on  a  casual  bed  of  moss  and  leaves, 
•   And  rudely  canopied  by  leafy  boughs,  20 

Or  to  the  churlish  elements  exposed 
On  the  blank  plains,  —  the  coldness  of  the  night, 
Or  the  night's  darkness,  or  its  cheerful  face 
Of  beauty,  by  the  changing  moon  adorned, 
Would,  with  imperious  admonition,  then 
Have  scored  thine  age,  and  punctually  timed 
Thine  infant  history,  on  the  minds  of  those 
Who  might  have  wandered  with  thee.  —  Mother's  love, 
Nor  less  than  mother's  love  in  other  breasts. 
Will,  among  us  warm-clad  and  warmly  housed,  30 

Do  for  thee  what  the  finger  of  the  heavens 
Doth  all  too  often  harshly  execute 
For  thy  unblest  coevals,  amid  wilds 
Where  fancy  hath  small  liberty  to  grace 
The  affections,  to  exalt  them  or  refine ; 
And  the  maternal  sympathy  itself, 
Though  strong,  is,  in  the  main,  a  joyless  tie 
Of  naked  instinct,  wound  about  the  heart. 
Happier,  far  happier,  is  thy  lot  and  ours  ! 
Even  now  —  to  solemnize  thy  helpless  state,  4° 

And  to  enliven  in  the  mind's  regard 
Thy  passive  beauty  —  parallels  have  risen, 
Resemblances,  or  contrasts,  that  connect, 
Within  the  region  of  a  father's  thoughts. 
Thee  and  thy  mate  and  sister  of  the  sky. 
And  first ;  —  thy  sinless  progress,  through  a  world, 
By  sorrow  darkened  and  by  care  disturbed, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  173 

Apt  likeness  bears  to  hers,  through  gathered  clouds 

Moving  untouched  in  silver  purity, 

And  cheering  oft-times  their  reluctant  gloom.  50 

Fair  are  ye  both,  and  both  are  free  from  stain ; 

But  thou,  how  leisurely  thou  fiU'st  thy  horn 

With  brightness  !  leaving  her  to  post  along. 

And  range  about,  disquieted  in  change. 

And  still  impatient  of  the  shape  she  wears. 

Once  up,  once  down  the  hill,  one  journey,  Babe, 

That  will  suffice  thee ;  and  it  seems  that  now  • 

Thou  hast  fore-knowledge  that  such  task  is  thine ; 

Thou  travellest  so  contentedly,  and  sleep'st 

In  such  a  heedless  peace.     Alas  !  full  soon  60 

Hath  this  conception,  grateful  to  behold, 

Changed  countenance,  like  an  object  sullied  o'er 

By  breathing  mist ;  and  thine  appears  to  be 

A  mournful  labor,  while  to  her  is  given 

Hope,  and  a  renovation  without  end. 

—  That  smile  forbids  the  thought ;  for  on  thy  face 

Smiles  are  beginning,  like  the  beams  of  dawn, 

To  shoot  and  circulate  ;  smiles  have  there  been  seen  ; 

Tranquil  assurances  that  Heaven  supports 

The  feeble  motions  of  thy  life,  and  cheers  7° 

Thy  loneliness  :  or  shall  those  smiles  be  called 

Feelers  of  love,  put  forth  as  if  to  explore 

This  untried  world,  and  to  prepare  thy  way 

Through  a  strait  passage,  intricate  and  dim  ? 

Such  are  they ;  and  the  same  are  tokens,  signs. 

Which,  when  the  appointed  season  hath  arrived, 

Joy,  as  her  holiest  language  shall  adopt ; 

And  Reason's  godlike  Power  be  proud  to  own. 


174  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE   SMALL   CELANDINE. 

1804.  — 1807. 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks,  like  many  more,  from  cold  and  rain  ; 
And,  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine. 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  't  is  out  again  ! 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest. 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm. 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  Thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  passed 

And  recognized  it,  though  an  altered  form,  10 

Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast. 

And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 

I  stopped,  and  said  with  inly  muttered  voice, 
"  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold  : 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 

It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay ; 

Stiff  in  its  members,  withered,  changed  of  hue." 

And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  grey.  20 

To  be  a  Prodigal's  Favorite  —  then,  worse  truth, 
A  Miser's  Pensioner  —  behold  our  lot ! 
O  Man,  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  175 


ODE  TO   DUTY. 

"Jam  non  consilio  bonus,  sed  more  eo  perductus,  ut  non  tantum 
recte  facere  possim,  sed  nisi  recte  facere  non  possim." 

1805.  —  1807. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  I 

O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  10 

W^here  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 

Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 

Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  own  security.  20 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 


176  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

I,  loving  fr.eedom,  and  untried ; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust  : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  40 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend  50 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  177 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  ! 


TO   A    SKYLARK. 

1805.  — 1807. 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind  ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  litde  troubled  with  sloth, 
12 


178  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Drunken  Lark  !  thou  would'st  be  loath  20 

To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 

Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind ; 

But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on,  30 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is  done. 


FIDELITY. 

1805.  — 1807. 

A  BARKING  sound  the  Shepherd  hears,  - 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox ; 
He  halts  —  and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks  : 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen. 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  Dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 
Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  I79 

With  something,  as  the  Shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry  : 

No'r  is  there  any  one  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  "or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear ; 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  below  !  20 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land  ; 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 

Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak. 

In  symphony  austere ; 

Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  —  the  cloud, 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ;  3° 

And  sunbeams  ;  and  the  sounding  blast. 

That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past ; 

But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a  while 

The  Shepherd  stood  ;  then  makes  his  way 

O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  Dog 

As  quickly  as  he  may ; 

Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 

A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground; 


l8o  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a  sigh  40 

Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear  ! 

At  length  upon  the  Shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear : 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  Traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake  50 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  Dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  Dog  had  been  through  three  months'  space 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 

When  this  ill-fated  Traveller  died. 

The  Dog  had  watched  about  the  spot,  60 

Or  by  his  master's  side  : 

How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 

He  knows,  who  gave  that  love  sublime ; 

And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 

Above  all  human  estimate  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  i8i 


INCIDENT 

CHARACTERISTIC   OF  A  FAVORITE  DOG. 
1805.  — 1807. 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  Master 

Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare  ; 

Searches  pasture  after  pasture. 

Sheep  and  catde  eyes  with  care ; 

And,  for  silence  or  for  talk, 

He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk ; 

Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed, 

Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for  speed. 

See  a  hare  before  him  started ! 

—  Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase ;  'o 

Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 

All  the  four  are  in  the  race  : 

And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue 

Knows  from  instinct  what  to  do  ; 

Her  hope  is  near  :  no  turn  she  makes ; 

But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 

Deep  the  river  was  and  crusted 

Thinly  by  a  one  night's  frost ; 

But  the  nimble  Hare  hath  trusted 

To  the  ice,  and  safely  crost ;  20 

She  hath  crost,  and  without  heed 

All  are  following  at  full  speed, 

When,  lo  !  the  ice,  so  thinly  spread, 

Breaks  —  and  the  greyhound,  Dart,  is  overhead  ! 


1 82  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Better  fate  have  Prince  and  Swallow  — 

See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport ! 

Music  has  no  heart  to  follow, 

Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 

She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart, 

Hers  is  now  another  part :  3° 

A  loving  creature  she,  and  brave  ! 

And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  friend  to  save. 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 

Very  hands  as  you  would  say  ! 

And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches. 

As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 

For  herself  she  hath  no  fears,  — 

Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears,  — 

Makes  efforts  with  complainings  ;  nor  gives  o'er 

Until  her  fellow  sinks  to  reappear  no  more.  4^ 


TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  MEMORY   OF  THE  SAME  DOG. 
1805.  —  1807. 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 
Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth ! 
It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise. 
Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  Stone  we  raise ; 
More  thou  deserv'st ;  but  this  man  gives  to  man, 
Brother  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  183 

Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 
Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year : 
This  Oak  points  out  thy  grave  ;  the  silent  tree 
Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  of  thee. 

We  grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end  were  past : 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived  till  everything  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away, 
And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day  ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knees,  — 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath, 
And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death.  20 

It  came,  and  we  were  glad ;  yet  tears  were  shed  ; 
Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou  wert  dead ; 
Not  only  for  a  thousand  thoughts  that  were. 
Old  household  thoughts,  in  which  thou  hadst  thy  share ; 
But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree  ! 
For  love,  that  comes  wherever  life  and  sense 
Are  given  by  God,  in  thee  was  most  intense ; 
A  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 
A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind  30 

Not  only  to  us  Men,  but  to  thy  Kind  : 
Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 
A  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law  :  — 
Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame ; 
Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came. 
And,  therefore,  shalt  thou  be  an  honored  name. 


184  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 


"WHEN,  TO  THE   ATTRACTIONS  OF  THE    BUSY 
WORLD." 

1805.  — 1815. 

When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world, 

Preferring  studious  leisure,  I  had  chosen 

A  habitation  in  this  peaceful  Vale, 

Sharp  season  followed  of  continual  storm 

In  deepest  winter ;  and,  from  week  to  week, 

Pathway,  and  lane,  and  public  road  were  clogged 

With  frequent  showers  of  snow.     Upon  a  hill    . 

At  a  short  distance  from  my  cottage,  stands 

A  stately  Fir-grove,  whither  I  was  wont 

To  hasten,  for  I  found,  beneath  the  roof  10 

Of  that  perennial  shade,  a  cloistral  place 

Of  refuge,  with  an  unencumbered  floor. 

Here,  in  safe  covert,  on  the  shallow  snow, 

And,  sometimes,  on  a  speck  of  visible  earth. 

The  redbreast  near  me  hopped ;  nor  was  I  loath 

To  sympathize  with  vulgar  coppice  birds 

That,  for  protection  from  the  nipping  blast. 

Hither  repaired.  —  A  single  beech-tree  grew 

Within  this  grove  of  firs  !  and,  on  the  fork 

Of  that  one  beech,  appeared  a  thrush's  nest ;  20 

A  last  year's  nest,  conspicuously  built 

At  such  small  elevation  from  the  ground 

As  gave  sure  sign  that  they,  who  in  that  house 

Of  nature  and  of  love  had  made  their  home 

Amid  the  fir-trees,  all  the  summer  long 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  185 

Dwelt  in  a  tranquil  spot.     And  oftentimes 

A  few  sheep,  stragglers  from  some  mountain-flock, 

Would  watch  my  motions  with  suspicious  stare, 

From  the  remotest  outskirts  of  the  grove,  — 

Some  nook  where  they  had  made  their  final  stand,       3° 

Huddling  together  from  two  fears  —  the  fear 

Of  me  and  of  the  storm.     Full  many  an  hour 

Here  did  I  lose.     But  in  this  grove  the  trees 

Had  been  so  thickly  planted,  and  had  thriven 

In  such  perplexed  and  intricate  array. 

That  vainly  did  I  seek  beneath  their  stems 

A  length  of  open  space,  where  to  and  fro 

My  feet  might  move  without  concern  or  care ; 

And,  baffled  thus,  though  earth  from  day  to  day 

Was  fettered,  and  the  air  by  storm  disturbed,  40 

I  ceased  the  shelter  to  frequent,  —  and  prized, 

Less  than  I  wished  to  prize,  that  calm  recess. 

The  snows  dissolved,  and  genial  Spring  returned 
To  clothe  the  fields  with  verdure.     Other  haunts 
Meanwhile  were  mine  ;  till,  one  bright  April  day, 
By  chance  retiring  from  the  glare  of  noon 
To  this  forsaken  covert,  there  I  found 
A  hoary  pathway  traced  between  the  trees, 
And  winding  on  with  such  an  easy  line 
Along  a  natural  opening,  that  I  stood  50 

Much  wondering  how  I  could  have  sought  in  vain 
For  what  was  now  so  obvious.     To  abide, 
For  an  allotted  interval  of  ease. 
Under  my  cottage-roof,  had  gladly  come 
From  the  wild  sea  a  cherished  Visitant ; 


i86  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  with  the  sight  of  this  same  path  —  begun, 

Begun  and  ended,  in  the  shady  grove, 

Pleasant  conviction  flashed  upon  my  mind 

That,  to  this  opportune  recess  allured. 

He  had  surveyed  it  with  a  finer  eye,  60 

A  heart  more  wakeful ;  and  had  worn  the  track 

By  pacing  here,  unwearied  and  alone, 

In  that  habitual  restlessness  of  foot 

That  haunts  the  Sailor  measuring  o'er  and  o'er 

His  short  domain  upon  the  vessel's  deck. 

While  she  pursues  her  course  through  the  dreary  sea. 

When  thou  hadst  quitted  Esthwaite's  pleasant  shore. 
And  taken  thy  first  leave  of  those  green  hills 
And  rocks  that  were  the  play-ground  of  thy  youth, 
Year  followed  year,  my  Brother  !  and  we  two,  70 

Conversing  not,  knew  little  in  what  mould 
Each  other's  mind  was  fashioned ;  and  at  length,  ' 
When  once  again  we  met  in  Grasmere  Vale, 
Between  us  there  was  little  other  bond 
Than  common  feelings  of  fraternal  love. 
But  thou,  a  School-boy,  to  the  sea  hadst  carried 
Undying  recollections  3  Nature  there 
Was  with  thee ;  she,  who  loved  us  both,  she  still 
Was  with  thee ;  and  even  so  didst  thou  become 
A  silent  Poet ;  from  the  solitude  80 

Of  the  vast  sea  didst  bring  a  watchful  heart 
Still  couchant,  an  inevitable  ear, 
And  an  eye  practised  like  a  blind  man's  touch. 
—  Back  to  the  joyless  Ocean  thou  art  gone ; 
Nor  from  this  vestige  of  thy  musing  hours 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  187 

Could  I  withhold  thy  honored  name,  —  and  now 

I  love  the  fir-grove  with  a  perfect  love. 

Thither  do  I  withdraw  when  cloudless  suns 

Shine  hot,  or  wind  blows  troublesome  and  strong; 

And  there  I  sit  at  evening,  when  the  steep  9° 

Of  Silver-how,  and  Grasmere's  peaceful  lake, 

And  one  green  island,  gleam  between  the  stems 

Of  the  dark  firs,  —  a  visionary  scene  ! 

And,  while  I  gaze  upon  the  spectacle 

Of  clouded  splendor,  on  this  dream-like  sight 

Of  solemn  loveliness,  I  think  on  thee, 

My  Brother,  and  on  all  which  thou  hast  lost. 

Nor  seldom,  if  I  rightly  guess,  while  Thou, 

Muttering  the  verses  which  I  muttered  first 

Among  the  mountains,  through  the  midnight  watch    100 

Art  pacing  thoughtfully  the  vessel's  deck 

In  some  far  region,  here,  while  o'er  my  head. 

At  every  impulse  of  the  moving  breeze, 

The  fir-grove  murmurs  with  a  sea-like  sound. 

Alone  I  tread  this  path,  —  for  aught  I  know, 

Timing  my  steps  to  thine ;  and,  with  a  store 

Of  undistinguishable  sympathies. 

Mingling  most  earnest  wishes  for  the  day 

When  we,  and  others  whom  we  love,  shall  meet 

A  second  time,  in  Grasmere's  happy  Vale.  "c* 


1 88  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


ELEGIAC   STANZAS, 

SUGGESTED   BY   A  PICTURE  OF  PEELE   CASTLE,   IN   A   STORM, 
PAINTED  BY   SIR   GEORGE  BEAUMONT. 

1805.  —  1807. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee  : 
I  saw  thee  every  day ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  Image  still  was  there  \ 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  it  seemed  no  sleep  ; 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings  :         10 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter's  hand. 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream  ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  Pile, 

Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 

Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 

On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bUss.  20 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  189 

Thou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years  ;  a  chronicle  of  heaven ;  — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart. 

Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made :  3© 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  —  't  is  so  no  more  ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  Soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 

A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 

The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 

This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene.  40 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  !  who  would  have  been  the  Friend, 
If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore. 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend  ; 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

O  't  is  a  passionate  Work  —  yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 
That  Hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  ! 


igo  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves,  5° 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time. 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

.Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 

And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne  ! 

Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here.  — 

Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn.  60 


TO  THE   DAISY. 

1805.—  1815. 

Sweet  Flower  !  belike  one  day  to  have 
A  place  upon  thy  Poet's  grave, 
I  welcome  thee  once  more  : 
But  He,  who  was  on  land,  at  sea, 
My  Brother,  too,  in  loving  thee, 
Although  he  loved  more  silently. 
Sleeps  by  his  native  shore. 

Ah  !  hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day 

When  to  that  ship  he  bent  his  way, 

To  govern  and  to  guide  : 

His  wish  was  gained  :  a  little  time 

Would  bring  him  back,  in  manhood's  prime 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  19 1 

And  free  for  life,  these  hills  to  climb ; 
With  all  his  wants  supplied. 

And  full  of  hope  day  followed  day- 
While  that  stout  Ship  at  anchor  lay 
Beside  the  shores  of  Wight ; 
The  May  had  then  made  all  things  green  ; 
And,  floating  there,  in  pomp  serene, 
That  Ship  was  goodly  to  be  seen, 
His  pride  and  his  delight ! 


20 


Yet  then,  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 
The  tender  peace  of  rural  thought : 
In  more  than  happy  mood 
To  your  abodes,  bright  daisy  Flowers  ! 
He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours, 
And  loved  you  glittering  in  your  bowers, 
A  starry  multitude. 

But  hark  the  word  !  —  the  Ship  is  gone ;  — 

Returns  from  her  long  course  :  —  anon  30 

Sets  sail :  —  in  season  due 

Once  more  on  English  earth  they  stand  : 

But,  when  a  third  time  from  the  land 

They  parted,  sorrow  was  at  hand 

For  Him  and  for  his  crew. 

Ill-fated  Vessel !  —  ghastly  shock  ! 

—  At  length  delivered  from  the  rock. 

The  deep  she  hath  regained ; 

And  through  the  stormy  night  they  steer, 

Laboring  for  life,  in  hope  and  fear,  40 

To  reach  a  safer  shore  —  how  near, 

Yet  not  to  be  attained  ! 


192  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

"  Silence  ! "  the  brave  Commander  cried ; 
To  tiiat  calm  word  a  shriek  replied  : 
It  was  the  last  death-shriek. 
—  A  few  (my  soul  oft  sees  that  sight) 
Survive  upon  the  tall  mast's  height ; 
But  one  dear  remnant  of  the  night  — 
For  Him  in  vain  I  seek. 

Six  weeks  beneath  the  moving  sea  50 

He  lay  in  slumber  quietly ; 

Unforced  by  wind  or  wave 

To  quit  the  Ship  for  which  he  died, 

(All  claims  of  duty  satisfied  ;) 

And  there  they  found  him  at  her  side. 

And  bore  him  to  the  grave. 

Vain  service  !  yet  not  vainly  done 

For  this,  if  other  end  were  none, 

That  He,  who  had  been  cast 

Upon  a  way  of  life  unmeet  60 

For  such  a  gentle  Soul  and  sweet, 

Should  find  an  undisturbed  retreat 

Near  what  he  loved,  at  last  — 

That  neighborhood  of  grove  and  field 

To  Him  a  resting-place  should  yield, 

A  meek  man  and  a  brave  ! 

The  birds  shall  sing  and  ocean  make 

A  mournful  murmur  for  his  sake  ; 

And  Thou,  sweet  Flower,  shalt  sleep  and  wake 

Upon  his  senseless  grave.  70 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  193 


TO  A  YOUNG   LADY, 

WHO  HAD  BEEN    REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING  XONG  WALKS   IN 
THE   COUNTRY. 

1805.-1807. 

Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 

—  There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold ; 

Where  thou,  a  Wife  and  Friend,  shalt  see 

Thy  own  heart-stirring  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd  boy, 

And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 

Which  at  no  season  fade. 

Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling,  10 

Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  Woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 

Nor  leave  thee,  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh, 

A  melancholy  slave  ; 

But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright. 

And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 


13 


194  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

CHARACTER  OF  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

1806.  — 1807. 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  ?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
—  It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought : 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright  : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care  ; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives  : 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate ; 
Is  placable  —  because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more ;  more  able  to  endure 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  1 95 

— -  T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,  30 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 

^-  Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 

Rises  by  open  means  \  and  there  will  stand 

On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ;  40 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind,  50 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need : 

•^  He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 


196  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ;  60 

Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  :  — 

'Tis,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity,  — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not  — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one  70 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won  : 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast. 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name  —  80 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  : 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior ;  this  is  He 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  197 


STRAY  PLEASURES. 

" Pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find." 

1806.  —  1807. 

By  their  floating  mill, 

That  lies  dead  and  still, 
Behold  yon  Prisoners  three, 

The  Miller  with  two  Dames,  on  the  breast  of  the  Thames  ! 
The  platform  is  small,  but  gives  room  for  them  all ; 
And  they  're  dancing  merrily. 

From  the  shore  come  the  notes 

To  their  mill  where  it  floats, 
To  their  house  and  their  mill  tethered  fast : 
To  the  small  wooden  isle  where,  their  work  to  beguile,    10 
They  from  morning  to  even  take  whatever  is  given ;  — 
And  many  a  blithe  day  they  have  past. 

In  sight  of  the  spires. 

All  alive  with  the  fires 
Of  the  sun  going  down  to  his  rest. 
In  the  broad  open  eye  of  the  solitary  sky. 
They  dance,  —  there  are  three,  as  jocund  as  free. 
While  they  dance  on  the  calm  river's  breast. 

Man  and  Maidens  wheel. 

They  themselves  make  the  reel,  20 

And  their  music 's  a  prey  which  they  seize ; 
It  plays  not  for  them,  —  what  matter  ?  't  is  theirs ; 


198  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  if  they  had  care,  it  has  scattered  their  cares ; 
While  they  dance,  crying,  "  Long  as  ye  please  !  " 

They  dance  not  for  me. 

Yet  mine  is  their  glee  1 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find ; 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  Nature  to  gladness  and  mirth.  3° 

The  showers  of  the  spring 
Rouse  the  birds,  and  they  sing ; 

If  the  wind  do  but  stir  for  his  proper  delight. 

Each  leaf,  that  and  this,  his  neighbor  will  kiss ; 

Each  wave,  one  and  t'other,  speeds  after  his  brother ; 

They  are  happy,  for  that  is  their  right ! 


"YES,   IT  WAS  THE  MOUNTAIN   ECHO." 

1806.  — 1807. 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo, 
Solitary,  clear,  profound. 
Answering  to  the  shouting  Cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound  ! 

Unsolicited  reply 

To  a  babbling  wanderer  sent ; 

Like  her  ordinary  cry. 

Like  —  but  oh,  how  different ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  199 

Hears  not  also  mortal  Life  ? 

Hear  not  we,  unthinking  Creatures  !  10 

Slaves  of  folly,  love,  or  strife  — 

Voices  of  two  different  natures  ? 

Have  not  we  too  ?  —  yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence ; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognized  intelligence  ! 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar  — 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear ; 
For  of  God,  —  of  God  they  are. 


LINES 


Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one  Evening,  after  a  stormy 
day,  the  Author  having  just  read  in  a  Newspaper  that  the  disso- 
lution of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected. 

1806.— 1807. 

Loud  is  the  Vale  !  the  Voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams  ! 

Of  all  her  Voices,  One  ! 

Loud  is  the  Vale  ;  —  this  inland  Depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  Sea ; 


200  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest, 
Importunate  and  heavy  load  !  lo 

The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 
Upon  this  lonely  road ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad  — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear ; 
For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear. 

A  Power  is  passing  from  the  earth 

To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss ; 

But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 

What  is  it  more  than  this  —  20 

That  Man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ?  — 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be, 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn? 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  201 

POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

1806.  — 1807. 

An  Orpheus  !  an  Orpheus  !  yes,  Faith  may  grow  bold, 
And  take  to  herself  all  the  wonders  of  old,  — 
Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you  '11  meet  with  the  same 
In  the  street  that  from  Oxford  hath  borrowed  its  name. 

His  station  is  there ;  and  he  works  on  the  crowd, 
He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and  loud ; 
He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to  the  brim,  — 
Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  fiddle  and  him  ? 

What  an  eager  assembly  !  what  an  empire  is  this  ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss ;  10 

The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burdened  soul  is  no  longer  opprest. 

As  the  Moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the  night, 
So  He,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light ; 
It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-browed  Jack, 
And  the  pale-visaged  Baker's,  with  basket  on  back. 

That  errand-bound  'Prentice  was  passing  in  haste  — 
What  matter  !  he 's  caught,  and  his  time  runs  to  waste ; 
The  Newsman  is  stopped,  though  he  stops  on  the  fret ; 
And  the  half-breathless  Lamplighter  —  he  's  in  the  net !  20 


202  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  Porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore  ; 
The  Lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store,  — 
If  a  thief  could  be  here  he  might  pilfer  at  ease ; 
She  sees  the  Musician,  't  is  all  that  she  sees  ! 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  wall ;  he  abates  not  his  din ; 
His  hat  gives  him  vigor,  with  boons  dropping  in, 
From  the  old  and  the  young,  from  the  poorest :  and  there  1 
The  one-pennied  Boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 

0  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  be  the  hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a  band ;    30 

1  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is  !  —  all  the  while 

If  they  speak  't  is  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a  smile. 

That  tall  Man,  a  giant  in  bulk  and  in  height. 
Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight ; 
Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would  ?    Oh,  not  he  ! 
The  music  stirs  in  him  like  wind  through  a  tree. 

Mark  that  Cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch  ;  like  a  tower 
That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour  !  — 
That  Mother,  whose  spirit  in  fetters  is  bound. 
While  she  dandles  the  Babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound.     40 

Now,  coaches  and  chariots  !  roar  on  hke  a  stream ; 
Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a  dream  : 
They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs,  —  they  care  not  for  you. 
Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  ye  pursue  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  203 


ODE 

ON   INTIMATIONS    OF  IMMORTALITY   FROM    RECOLLECTIONS   OF 
EARLY   CHILDHOOD. 

1803-6.  —  1807. 
I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
-""~'It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  : 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
^^The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


II. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  10 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose  ; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

m. 
Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 


204  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief :  \ 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  Cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief_of.mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday ;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

rv. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  :  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 

My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning. 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  205 

And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm :  — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  !  50 

— ■  But  there 's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
^Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
\  Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  60 

And  Cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  homej_ 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
.'Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

-Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ;  70 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.  ^ 


206  SELECTIONS  FROM    WORDSWORTH. 


VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

.  And  no  unworthy  aim,  80 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


vn. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-bom  blisses, 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pygmy  size  ! 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,  90 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ! 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  100 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  207 

The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep  "o 

Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, ' 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ;  "o 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-bom  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  He  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 


208  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


IX. 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live,  130 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hopes  still  fluttering  in  his  breast :  — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ;  140 

/    But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
\    Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections,  _ 

Tliose^ shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may,  150 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeingj 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  209 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  !  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  !  170 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
xWhat  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
'-Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ;  180 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be  : 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 
14. 


2IO  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

XI. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  heartsf^I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  190 

Tp  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway.) 

love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret. 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live,  200 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


O   NIGHTINGALE!   THOU   SURELY  ART.' 

1807  (?).— 1807. 

O  Nightingale  !  thou  surely  art 

A  creature  of  a  "  fiery  heart :  "  — 

These  notes  of  thine  —  they  pierce  and  pierce ; 

Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  ! 

Thou  sing'st  as  if  the  God  of  wine 

Had  helped  thee  to  a  Valentine ; 

A  song  in  mockery  and  despite 

Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  2il 

And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 

Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves.  lo 

I  heard  a  Stock-dove  sing  or  say 

His  homely  tale,  this  very  day ; 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 

Yet  to  be  come-at  by  the  breeze  : 

He  did  not  cease,  but  cooed  —  and  cooed, 

And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 

He  sang  of  love,  with  quiet  blending, 

Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending ; 

Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee  : 

That  was  the  song  —  the  song  for  me  !  20 


SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE, 

UPON  THE   RESTORATION    OF  LORD  CLIFFORD,  THE   SHEPHERD, 
TO  THE  ESTATES   AND   HONORS   OF   HIS   ANCESTORS. 

1807.  —  1807. 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate. 
And  Emont's  murmur  mingled  with  the  Song.  — 
The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long  :  — 

"  From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower, 

The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past. 

The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last ; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 

For  everlasting  blossoming :  lo 


212  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white  : 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended.  — 

Joy  !  joy  to  both  !  but  most  to  her 

Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster  ! 

Behold  her  how  She  smiles  to-day 

On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array ! 

Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 

From  every  corner  of  the  hall ;  20 

Both  chiefly  from  above  the  board 

Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  Lord, 

A  Cliflbrd  to  his  own  restored  ! 

They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield  ; 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-field 
Not  long  the  Avenger  was  withstood  — 
Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood  : 
St.  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 
Loud  voice  the  Land  has  uttered  forth,  30 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north  : 
Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 
Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming ; 
Our  strong  abodes  and  castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour,  — 
Though  lonely,  a  deserted  Tower ; 
Knight,  squire,  and  yeoman,  page  and  groom. 
We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm. 
How  glad  Pendragon  —  though  the  sleep  40 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  213 

Of  years  be  on  her  !  —  She  shall  reap 

A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 

As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 

Rejoiced  is  Broiigh,  right  glad  I  deem 

Beside  her  little  humble  stream ; 

And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 

Her  stateHer  Eden's  course  to  guard ; 

They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 

Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  Tower  :  — 

But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride  50 

For  one  fair  House  by  Emont's  side, 

This  day,  distinguished  without  peer 

To  see  her  Master  and  to  cheer  — 

Him,  and  his  Lady-mother  dear  ! 

Oh !  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born  — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die  ! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  Mother  and  the  Child.  60 

Who  will  take  them  from  the  light  ? 
—  Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight  — 
Yonder  is  a  house  —  but  where  ? 
No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 
To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks, 
To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks : 
She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 
Blissful  Mary,  Mother  mild, 

Maid  and  Mother  undefiled,  70 

Save  a  Mother  and  her  Child ! 


214  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Now  Who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carrock's  side,  a  Shepherd-boy  ? 
No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 
Can  this  be  He  who  hither  came 
In  secret,  Hke  a  smothered  flame  ? 
O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread  ! 
God  loves  the  Child ;  and  God  hath  willed  80 

That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled, 
The  Lady's  words,  when  forced  away, 
The  last  she  to  her  Babe  did  say  ; 
'  My  own,  my  own,  thy  Fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be ;  but  rest  thee,  rest. 
For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best ! ' 

Alas  !  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 
The  Boy  must  part  from  Mosedale's  groves, 
And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves,  90 

And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin's  lofty  springs  ; 
Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 
—  Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise  ! 
Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days  ! 
Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 
For  this  young  Bird  that  is  distrest ; 
Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay, 
And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play,  100 

When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  215 

A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear  ! 
I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long,  — 
A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 
Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  Youth, 
And  thankful  through  a  weary  time, 
That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 
—  Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will,  no 

And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill : 
His  garb  is  humble  ;  ne'er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien ; 
Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 
Hath  he,  a  Child  of  strength  and  state  ! 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee. 
Nor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 
To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 
Came,  and  rested  without  fear ; 

The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea,  120 

Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty ; 
And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 
Through  Bowscale-tam  did  wait  on  him ; 
The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 
In  their  immortality ; 
And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 
Moved  to  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 
He  knew  the  rocks  which  Angels  haunt 
Upon  the  mountains  visitant ; 

He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing :  130 

And  into  caves  where  Faeries  sing 
He  hath  entered ;  and  been  told 


2l6  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 

The  face  of  thing  that  is  to  be  ; 

And,  if  that  men  report  him  right, 

His  tongue  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

—  Now  another  day  is  come, 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom  ; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook,  140 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book ; 

Armor  rusting  in  his  halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls  ;  — 

*  Quell  the  Scot,'  exclaims  the  Lance  — 

Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 

Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield  — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  Field ; 

Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour,  150 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power, 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored, 

Like  a  re-appearing  Star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  !  '* 

Alas  !  the  impassioned  minstrel  did  not  know 

How,  by  Heaven's  grace,  this  Clifford's  heart  was  framed : 

How  he,  long  forced  in  humble  walks  to  go. 

Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed  and  tamed.  160 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie ; 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  217 

The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  Race, 
Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead : 
Nor  did  he  change ;  but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage-hearth ; 

The  Shepherd-lord  was  honored  more  and  more ;       170 

And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 

"The  good  Lord  Clifford  "  was  the  name  he  bore. 


THE   FORCE   OF  PRAYER; 

OR,   THE   FOUNDING   OF   BOLTON   PRIORY.  —  A  TRADITION. 

1807.  — 1815. 

•*  C5^!)at  ts  gootf  for  a  fiootless  tjene  ?  '* 

With  these  dark  words  begins  my  Tale  ; 

And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 

When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? 

*•  C?^|)at  IS  flooTr  for  a  bootless  bene?  ** 

The  Falconer  to  the  Lady  said ; 

And  she  made  answer,  "  endless  sorrow  I " 

For  she  knew  that  her  Son  was  dead. 

She  knew  it  by  the  Falconer's  words, 

And  from  the  look  of  the  Falconer's  eye  ;  10 

And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 

For  her  youthful  Romilly. 


2l8  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

—  Young  Romilly  through  Barden  woods 
Is  ranging  high  and  low  ; 
And  holds  a  greyhound  in  a  leash, 
To  let  slip  upon  buck  or  doe. 

The  pair  have  reached  that  fearful  chasm, 

How  tempting  to  bestride  ! 

For  lordly  Wharf  is  there  pent  in 

With  rocks  on  either  side.  20 

This  striding-place  is  called  The  Strid, 
A  name  which  it  took  of  yore  : 
A  thousand  years  hath  it  borne  that  name, 
And  shall  a  thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come, 
And  what  may  now  forbid 
That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Shall  bound  across  The  Strid  ? 

He  sprang  in  glee,  —  for  what  cared  he 

That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the  rocks  were  steep  ?  —  3° 

But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back, 

And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  Boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force ; 
For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  seen 
Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

Now  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale, 

And  long,  unspeaking  sorrow  : 

Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 

A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow.  40 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  219 

If  for  a  lover  the  Lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion  of  death ;  — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 

She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrow  : 
Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 
And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone, 

And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave ;  5° 

And  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 

Was  in  her  husband's  grave  ! 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit. 
And  her  first  words  were,  "  Let  there  be 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf, 
A  stately  Priory  !  " 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared ; 

And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along, 

To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice, 

Nor  failed  at  even-song.  60 

And  the  Lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  rehef ! 
But  slowly  did  her  succor  come, 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh  !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend  ! 


230  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

LAODAMIA. 

1814.  — 1815. 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 

Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 

And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 

Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required  : 

Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  :  — 

Restore  him  to  my  sight  —  great  Jove,  restore  !  " 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands ; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud. 

Her  countenance  brightens,  and  her  eye  expands ;  10 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows ; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror  !  what  hath  she  perceived? —  O  joy  ! 
What  doth  she  look  on?  —  whom  doth  she  behold? 
Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 
His  vital  presence  ?  his  corporeal  mould  ? 
It  is  —  if  sense  deceive  her  not  —  't  is  He  ! 
And  a  God  leads  him,  winged  Mercury  ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake  —  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 

That  calms  all  fear ;  "  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy  prayer,  20 

Laodamia  !  that  at  Jove's  command 

Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air : 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space ; 

Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face  ! " 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  221 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to  clasp  : 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  : 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  Phantom  parts  —  but  parts  to  re-unite, 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight.  30 

"  Protesildus,  lo  !  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice  ; 
This  is  our  palace,  —  yonder  is  thy  throne  : 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appall  me  have  the  Gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon,  and  blest  a  sad  abode." 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamia  !  doth  not  leave 

His  gifts  imperfect :  —  Spectre  though  I  be, 

I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity.  40 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold  : 

A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 

A  self-devoted  chief,  by  Hector  slain.'* 

"  Supreme  of  Heroes  —  bravest,  noblest,  best ! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more,  50 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 


222  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found'st  —  and  I  forgive  thee  —  here  thou  art  — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 

And  he  whose  power  restores  thee  hath  decreed 

Thou  shouldst  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave  : 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air.  6g 

No  Spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain  Shadow  this ; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side  ! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride  !  " 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven  :  the  conscious  Parcae  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"  This  visage  tells  me  that  my  doom  is  past : 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.     Earth  destroys  70 

Those  raptures  duly  ^-  Erebus  disdains  : 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide  —  majestic  pains. 

Be  taught,  O  faithful  Consort,  to  control 
^Rebellious  passion  :  for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate  ;  and  meekly  mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn —  " 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  223 

"  Ah,  wherefore  ?  —  Did  not  Hercules  by  force 

Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb  80 

Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 

And  ^son  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 

The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful  —  and  they 

Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier  far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 

And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast.    90 

But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow —  "  "  Peace  !  "  he  said,  — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 

The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fle^ ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 

In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal, 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ;  100 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous  —  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty ;  more  pellucid  streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 


224  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams  ; 
Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  ente^  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue.  ^ — ^'  111,"  said  he,  no 

"  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night ; 

And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 

By  martial  sports,  —  or,  seated  in  the  tent. 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained ; 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained.  i2(3 

The  wished- for  wind  was  given  :  —  I  then  revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand,  — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  Wife  ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life,  —  130 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod  ;  these  fountains,  flowers ; 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  225 

But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 
*  Behold  they  tremble  !  —  haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ?  ' 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away : 
Old  frailties  then  recurred  :  —  but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

And  Thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow  ;  140 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathized ; 

Be  thy  affection  raised  and  solemnized. 

Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend,  — 

Seeking  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given, 

Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven,  — 

That  self  might  be  annulled  :  her  bondage  prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love."  —  150 

Aloud  she  shrieked  !  for  Hermes  re-appears  ! 

Round  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung  —  't  is  vain  ; 

The  hours  are  past  —  too  brief  had  they  been  years  ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way. 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corse  She  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 
She  perished  ;  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 
By  the  ,\ust  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved,  160 

IS 


2  26  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

—  Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 

Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone. 

As  fondly  he  believes.  —  Upon  the  side 

Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died ;       170 

And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 

That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 

The  trees'  tall  summits  withered 'at  the  sight ; 

A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight ! 


DION. 

(see  PLUTARCH.) 

1814.  —  1820. 

I. 

Serene,  and  fitted  to  embrace. 
Where'er  he  turned,  a  swan-like  grace 
Of  haughtiness  without  pretence, 
And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 
Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 
And  what  pure  homage  then  did  wait 
On  Dion's  virtues  !  while  the  lunar  beam 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  227 

Of  Plato's  genius,  from  its  lofty  sphere, 

Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe,  10 

Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere  — 

That  he,  not  too  elate 

With  self  sufficing  solitude, 
But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 

Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign, 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

n. 

Five  thousand  warriors,  —  O  the  rapturous  day  ! 

Each  crowned  with  flowers,  and  armed  with  spear  and  shield, 

Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield,  20 

To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 

Who  leads  them  on  ?  —  The  anxious  people  see 

Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head, 

He  also  crowned  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 

And  in  a  white,  far-beaming  corslet  clad  ! 

Pure  transport  undisturbed  by  doubt  or  fear 

The  gazers  feel ;  and  rushing  to  the  plain. 

Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train 

Or  blest  procession  (to  the  Immortals  dear) 

That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again.  ^P' 

Lo  !  when  the  gates  are  entered,  on  each  hand, 

Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  filled  with  wine 

In  seemly  order  stand. 
On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine ; 
And  as  the  great  Deliverer  marches  by. 

He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrewn ; 
And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 


2  28  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

In  boundless  prodigality ; 
Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer, 
Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care,  40 

As  if  a  very  Deity  he  were  ! 

III. 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica  !  and  mourn 

Ilissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn  ! 

Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 

Your  once  sweet  memory,  studious  walks  and  shades  ! 

For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired. 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause. 

But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 

Framed  in  the  schools  where  Wisdom  dwells  retired, 

Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right  50 

(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway  paved  with  stars) 

Which  Dion  learned  to  measure  with  sublime  delight ;  — 

But  He  hath  overleaped  the  eternal  bars ; 

And  following  guides  whose  craft  holds  no  consent 

With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethereal  element, 

Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood, 

Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 

Whence  doubts  that  came  too  late,  and  wishes  vain. 

Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain ; 

And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low  60 

As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart. 

The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go. 

But  whence  that  sudden  check  ?  that  fearful  start  ? 

He  hears  an  uncouth  sound,  — 

Anon  his  Hfted  eyes 
Saw,  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  229 

A  Shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 

And  hideous  aspect,  stalliing  round  and  round. 

A  woman's  garb  the  Phantom  wore, 

And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor,  — •  70 

Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro, 

His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try ; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skims  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Maenalus  he  stops 
His  flight,  'mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops  ! 

IV. 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping, 
The  sullen  Spectre  to  her  purpose  bowed. 

Sweeping  —  vehemently  sweeping,  — 
No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avowed  !  80 

"  Avaunt,  inexplicable  Guest !  — avaunt," 
Exclaimed  the  Chieftain,  —  "  let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make ; 
The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid  flake, 
And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold  whom  vengeful  Furies  haunt ; 
Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee. 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn, 
And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds  have  borne  !  " 

V. 

But  Shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call  90 

Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid ; 

Lords  of  the  visionary  eye  whose  lid, 

Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall ! 

Ye  Gods,  thought  He,  that  servile  Implement 


230  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

Obeys  a  mystical  intent ! 

Your  Minister  would  brush  away 

The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere ; 

But  should  she  labor  night  and  day, 

They  will  not,  cannot  disappear ; 

Whence  angry  perturbations,  —  and  that  look  100 

Which  no  Philosophy  can  brook  ! 

VI. 

Ill-fated  Chief !  there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 

Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name  ; 

Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's  guilt, 

Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim  ! 

O  matchless  perfidy  !  portentous  lust 

Of  monstrous  crime  !  —  that  horror-striking  blade. 

Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  Gods,  hath  laid 

The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 

Shuddered  the  walls  —  the  marble  city  wept^  no 

And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive  sigh ; 

But  in  calm  peace  the  appointed  Victim  slept. 

As  he  had  fallen  in  magnanimity ; 

Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 

That  Destiny  her  course  should  change  ;  too  just 

To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 

That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened  by  mistrust. 

So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 

The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 

Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely  state,  120 

He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  Fate : 

"  Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends, 

Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends. 

Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends." 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  231 

COMPOSED   AT   CORA   LINN, 

IN   SIGHT   OF   WALLACE'S   TOWER. 
1814.  —  1820. 

Lord  of  the  vale  !  astounding  Flood ; 
The  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 
Quakes  —  conscious  of  thy  power ; 
The  caves  reply  with  hollow  moan  ; 
And  vibrates,  to  its  central  stone, 
Yon  time-cemented  Tower ! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene  ! 

For  thou,  O  Clyde,  hast  ever  been 

Beneficent  as  strong ; 

Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep  w 

The  little  trembling  flowers  that  peep 

Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee,  —  delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  voice  can  hear ; 
And,  to  the  patriot-warrior's  Shade, 
Lord  of  the  vale  !  to  Heroes  laid  • 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear  !. 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night 

Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  Wight ;  •    20 

Or  stands,  in  warlike  vest. 

Aloft,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam, 


232  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

A  Champion  worthy  of  the  stream, 
Yon  gray  tower's  living  crest ! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 

A  form  not  doubtfully  descried  :  — 

Their  transient  mission  o'er, 

O  say  to  what  blind  region  flee 

These  Shapes  of  awful  phantasy  ? 

To  what  untrodden  shore  ?  30 

Less  than  divine  command  they  spurn ; 
But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn, 
And  this  the  valleys  show ; 
That  never  will  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 

Shall  walk  the  Marathonian  plain ; 

Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom 

That  still  invests  the  guardian  Pass  40 

Where  stood,  sublime,  Leonidas 

Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

And  let  no  Slave  his  head  incline, 
Or  kneel,  before  the  votive  shrine 
By  Uri's  lake,  where  Tell 
Leapt,  from  his  storm- vext  boat,  to  land, 
Heaven's  Instrument,  for  by  his  hand 
That  day  the  Tyrant  fell. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  233 


YARROW  VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER,  1814. 
1814.  —  1820. 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ?  —  This  the  Stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished  ! 

O  that  some  Minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  1  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  j 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 


234  SELECTIONS  FROM    WORDSWORTH. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning,  30 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers  ; 

And  Pity  sanctifies  the  Verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love ; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  !  40 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination. 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy ; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature,  5° 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  235 

And  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 
Behold  a  Ruin  hoary  ! 
The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 
Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in ; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  !  60 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there  — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  day. 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 

And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own  ! 

'T  were  no  offence  to  reason ;  70 

The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see  —  but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure.  80 


236  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine,  — 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image.  Yarrow ! 
Will  dwell  with  me,  —  to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


TO 


ON   HER  FIRST  ASCENT  TO  THE  SUMMIT  OF  HELVELLYN. 
1816.  —  1820. 

Inmate  of  a  mountain  dwelling, 
Thou  hast  clomb  aloft,  and  gazed 
From  the  watch-towers  of  Helvellyn ; 
Awed,  delighted,  and  amazed  ! 

Potent  was  the  spell  that  bound  thee, 
Not  unwilling  to  obey  ; 
For  blue  Ether's  arms,  flung  round  thee, 
Stilled  the  pantings  of  dismay. 

Lo  !  the  dwindled  woods  and  meadows ; 

What  a  vast  abyss  is  there  !  10 

Lo  !  the  clouds,  the  solemn  shadows. 

And  the  glistenings  —  heavenly  fair  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  237 

And  a  record  of  commotion 
Which  a  thousand  ridges  yield  : 
Ridge,  and  gulf,  and  distant  ocean 
Gleaming  like  a  silver  shield  ! 

Maiden  !  now  take  flight ;  —  inherit 

Alps  or  Andes,  —  they  are  thine  ! 

With  the  morning's  roseate  Spirit, 

Sweep  their  length  of  snowy  line ;  20 

Or  survey  their  bright  dominions 
In  the  gorgeous  colors  drest 
Flung  from  off  the  purple  pinions, 
Evening  spreads  throughout  the  west ! 

Thine  are  all  the  coral  fountains 
Warbling  in  each  sparry  vault 
Of  the  untrodden  lunar  mountains  ; 
Listen  to  their  songs  !  —  or  halt, 

To  Niphates'  top  invited, 

Whither  spiteful  Satan  steered  ;  30 

Or  descend  where  the  ark  alighted. 

When  the  green  earth  re-appeared ; 

For  the  power  of  hills  is  on  thee, 
As  was  witnessed  through  thine  eye 
Then,  when  old  Helvellyn  won  thee, 
To  confess  their  majesty  ! 


238  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

ODE  TO  LYCORIS. 

1817.  — 1820. 

I. 

An  age  hath  been  when  Earth  was  proud        * 
Of  lustre  too  intense  i 

To  be  sustained ;  and  Mortals  bowed  4 

The  front  in  self-defence.  3 

Who  then,  if  Dian's  crescent  gleamed,  ^ 

Or  Cupid's  sparkling  arrow  streamed  ^ 

While  on  the  wing  the  Urchin  played,  ^ 

Could  fearlessly  approach  the  shade  ?  ^ 

—  Enough  for  one  soft  vernal  day,  ^     ^ 

If  I,  a  bard  of  ebbing  time,  4r     ''       '° 

And  nurtured  in  a  fickle  clime  ^     -* 

May  haunt  this  hom6d  bay ;  ^ 

Whose  amorous  water  multiplies  \      ^ 

The  flitting  halcyon's  vivid  dyes  ;  ^-     *^ 

And  smooths  her  liquid  breast  —  to  show      ^     ^ 
These  swan-like  specks  of  mountain  snow,     v  ^ 
White  as  the  pair  that  slid  along  the  plains     -^    S 
Of  heaven,  when  Venus  held  the  reins  !  ^    ^ 

n. 

In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 

Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing ;  -  20 

Then,  Twilight  is  preferred  to  Dawn,  , 

And  Autumn  to  the  Spring. 

Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 

In  luxury  of  disrespect  o.       g. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  239 

To  our  own  prodigal  excess  '^  ^ 

Of  too  familiar  happiness.  c^-    4 

Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit  ^     ''-* 

Thee,  thee  my  life's  celestial  sign !)     ^   ^ 
\Yhen  Nature  marks  the  year's  decline,     4, 
Be  ours  to  welcome  "It ;  ^30 

^^  Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs  ^.  ^ 

Before  the  path  of  milder  suns  ;  ^  *^ 

Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays      "^  ^ 
Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze ;  ^  •^" 

Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the  knell     a.  ,/ 
Of  the  resplendent  miracle.  ^  r    ^ 

III. 

But  something  whispers  to  my  heart       «x  ^ 
That,  as  we  downward  tend,  "^  2 

Lycoris  !  life  requires  an  art  "^  ^ 

To  which  our  souls  must  bend ;  ""    2  40 

A  skill  —  to  balance  and  supply ;  •" 

And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry,  ^ 

As  soon  it  must,  a  sense  to  sip,  . 

C  Or  drink,  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Then  welcome,  above  all,  the  Guest  "^ 

Whose  smiles,  diffused  o'er  land  and  sea,     <t   ^ 
Seem  to  recall  the  Deity  V 

Of  youth  into  the  breast :  ^3 

May  pensive  Autumn  ne'er  present  ^ 

A  claim  to  her  disparagement !  '\  50 

While  blossoms  and  the  budding  spray         -^ 
Inspire  us  in  our  own  decay ;  "^ 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life's  dark  goal,  5" 

Be  hopeful  Spring  the  favorite  of  the  Soul !      -i-    r 


240  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE. 

1817.  — 1820. 


Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work, 

A  deep  delight  the  bosom  thrills, 

Oft  as  I  pass  along  the  fork 

Of  these  fraternal  hills  ; 

Where,  save  the  rugged  road,  we  find 

No  appanage  of  human  kind. 

Nor  hint  of  man  :  if  stone  or  rock 

Seem  not  his  handy-work  to  mock 

By  something  cognizably  shaped  : 

Mockery,  —  or  model  roughly  hewn,  10 

And  left  as  if  by  earthquake  strewn, 

Or  from  the  Flood  escaped : 

Altars  for  Druid  service  fit ; 

(But  where  no  fire  was  ever  lit, 

Unless  the  glow-worm  to  the  skies 

Thence  offer  nightly  sacrifice) 

Wrinkled  Egyptian  monument ; 

Green  moss-grown  tower ;  or  hoary  tent ; 

Tents  of  a  camp  that  never  shall  be  razed  — 

On  which  four  thousand  years  have  gazed  !  20 

II. 

Ye  plough -shares  sparkling  on  the  slopes  ! 
Ye  snow-white  lambs  that  trip 
Imprisoned  'mid  the  formal  props 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  241 

Of  restless  ownership  ! 

Ye  trees,  that  may  to-morrow  fall 

To  feed  the  insatiate  Prodigal ! 

Lawns,  houses,  chattels,  groves  and  fields, 

All  that  the  fertile  valley  shields ; 

Wages  of  folly  —  baits  of  crime, 

Of  hfe's  uneasy  game  the  stake,  Z^ 

Playthings  that  keep  the  eyes  awake 

Of  drowsy,  dotard  Time  ;  — 

O  care  !  O  guilt !  —  O  vales  and  plains, 

Here,  'mid  his  own  unvexed  domains, 

A  Genius  dwells,  that  can  subdue 

At  once  all  memory  of  You,  — 

Most  potent  when  mists  veil  the  sky, 

Mists  that  distort  and  magnify ; 

While  the  coarse  rushes,  to  the  sweeping  breeze, 

Sigh  forth  their  ancient  melodies  !  40 

III. 

List  to  those  shriller  notes  !  —  that  march 
Perchance  was  on  the  blast, 
When,  through  this  Height's  inverted  arch, 
Rome's  earhest  legion  passed  ! 
—  They  saw,  adventurously  impelled, 
And  older  eyes  than  theirs  beheld. 
This  block  —  and  yon,  whose  church-like  frame 
Gives  to  this  savage  Pass  its  name. 
Aspiring  Road  !  that  lov'st  to  hide 
Thy  daring  in  a  vapory  bourn,  50 

Not  seldom  may  the  hour  return 
When  thou  shalt  be  my  guide  : 
16 


242  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  I  (as  all  men  may  find  cause. 

When  life  is  at  a  weary  pause, 

And  they  have  panted  up  the  hill 

Of  duty  with  reluctant  will) 

Be  thankful,  even  though  tired  and  faint, 

For  the  rich  bounties  of  constraint ; 

Whence  oft  invigorating  transports  flow 

That  choice  lacked  courage  to  bestow  !  60 

IV. 

My  soul  was  grateful  for  delight 

That  wore  a  threatening  brow ; 

A  veil  is  lifted  —  can  she  slight 

The  scene  that  opens  now? 

Though  habitation  none  appear, 

The  greenness  tells,  man  must  be  there  ; 

The  shelter  —  that  the  perspective 

Is  of  the  clime  in  which  we  live ; 

Where  Toil  pursues  his  daily  round  ; 

Where  Pity  sheds  sweet  tears  —  and  Love,  7° 

In  woodbine  bower  or  birchen  grove, 

Inflicts  his  tender  wound. 

—  Who  comes  not  hither  ne'er  shall  know 

How  beautiful  the  world  below ; 

Nor  can  he  guess  how  lightly  leaps 

The  brook  adown  the  rocky  steeps. 

Farewell,  thou  desolate  Domain  ! 

Hope,  pointing  to  the  cultured  plain, 

Carols  like  a  shepherd-boy  ; 

And  who  is  she  ?  —  Can  that  be  Joy  !  80 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  243 

Who,  with  a  sunbeam  for  her  guide, 

Smoothly  skims  the  meadows  wide ; 

While  Faith,  from  yonder  opening  cloud, 

To  hill  and  vale  proclaims  aloud, 

"  Whate'er  the  weak  may  dread,  the  wicked  dare, 

Thy  lot,  O  Man,  is  good,  thy  portion  fair  !  " 


SEQUEL  TO   "THE   BEGGARS." 

COMPOSED    MANY   YEARS    AFTER. 
1817.  — 1827. 

Where  are  they  now,  those  wanton  Boys  ? 

For  whose  free  range  the  daedal  earth 

Was  filled  with  animated  toys. 

And  implements  of  frolic  mirth  ; 

With  tools  for  ready  wit  to  guide ; 

And  ornaments  of  seemlier  pride, 

More  fresh,  more  bright,  than  princes  wear ; 

For  what  one  moment  flung  aside, 

Another  could  repair : 

What  good  or  evil  have  they  seen 

Since  I  their  pastime  witnessed  here. 

Their  daring  wiles,  their  sportive  cheer? 

I  ask  —  but  all  is  dark  between  ! 

They  met  me  in  a  genial  hour, 
When  universal  nature  breathed 


244  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

As  with  the  breath  of  one  sweet  flower  — 

A  time  to  overrule  the  power 

Of  discontent,  and  check  the  birth 

Of  thoughts  with  better  thoughts  at  strife, 

The  most  famiHar  bane  of  Hfe  20 

Since  parting  Innocence  bequeathed 

MortaHty  to  Earth  ! 

Soft  clouds,  the  whitest  of  the  year, 

Sailed  through  the  sky  —  the  brooks  ran  clear ; 

The  lambs  from  rock  to  rock  were  bounding ; 

With  songs  the  budded  groves  resounding ; 

And  to  my  heart  are  still  endeared 

The  thoughts  with  which  it  then  was  cheered ; 

The  faith  which  saw  that  gladsome  pair 

Walk  through  the  fire  with  unsinged  hair.  3° 

Or,  if  such  faith  must  needs  deceive  — 

Then,  Spirits  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 

Associates  in  that  eager  chase  ; 

Ye,  who  within  the  blameless  mind 

Your  favorite  seat  of  empire  find  — 

Kind  Spirits  !  may  we  not  believe 

That  they,  so  happy  and  so  fair 

Through  your  sweet  influence,  and  the  care 

Of  pitying  Heaven,  at  least  were  free 

From  touch  of  ^^d!^/)^  injury?  40 

Destined,  whate'er  their  earthly  doom, 

For  mercy  and  immortal  bloom  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  245 


COMPOSED   UPON   AN    EVENING    OF   EXTRAOR- 
DINARY SPLENDOR  AND   BEAUTY. 

1818.  — 1820. 

I. 

Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 

With  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent, 

Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 

Of  blank  astonishment ; 

But  't  is  endued  with  power  to  stay, 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 

That  frail  Mortality  may  see  — 

What  is  ?  —  ah  no,  but  what  can  be  ! 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 

With  modulated  echoes  rang,  10 

While  choirs  of  fervent  Angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height. 

Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below. 

Strains  suitable  to  both.  —  Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love. 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle,  —  the  gleam  — 

The  shadow,  and  the  peace  supreme  !  20 

II. 
No  sound  is  uttered,  —  but  a  deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 


246  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh, 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 

Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 

Whate'er  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues  ! 

In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain-side ;  3° 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried ; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve  ! 

But  long  as  god-Hke  wish,  or  hope  divine, 

Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 

That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 

—  From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 

A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ;  • 

An  intermingling  of  Heaven's  pomp  is  spread 

On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread  !  40 

III. 

And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 
Afflict,  or  injuries  assail. 
Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 
Present  a  glorious  scale, 
Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air, 
To  stop  —  no  record  hath  told  where  ! 
And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend. 
And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend  ! 

—  Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play ; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze  .  5° 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward  raise 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  247 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad. 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound  ! 

And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 

Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Ye  Genii !  to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 

As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 

Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour  !  60 

IV. 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 

Were  wont  to  stream  before  mine  eye, 

Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  mom 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ? 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude  ; 

For  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  't  was  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power  !  whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice,  70 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 

From  Thee  if  I  would  swerve  ; 

Oh,  let  thy  gi-ace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  j 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored ; 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth  ! 

—  'T  is  past,  the  visionary  splendor  fades ; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades.  80 


248  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

NEAR  THE  SPRING  OF  THE   HERMITAGE. 

1818.  — 1820. 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions, 
Long  impatient  of  thy  rod, 
I  resign  my  soul's  emotions 
Unto  Thee,  mysterious  God  ! 

What  avails  the  kindly  shelter 
Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent. 
If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter 
On  the  waves  of  discontent  ? 

Parching  Summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  Well ; 
Rains,  that  make  each  rill  a  torrent, 
Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 

Thus,  dishonoring  not  her  station, 
Would  my  Life  present  to  Thee, 
Gracious  God,  the  pure  oblation 
Of  divine  tranquillity  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  249 

SEPTEMBER,    1819. 

1819. — 1820. 

Departing  summer  hath  assumed 
An  aspect  tenderly  illumed, 
The  gentlest  look  of  spring ; 
That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade 
Unfaded,  yet  prepared  to  fade, 
A  timely  carolling. 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill  — 

Such  tribute  as  to  winter  chill 

The  lonely  redbreast  pays  ! 

Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din,  10 

From  social  warblers  gathering  in 

Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 
Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere, 
And  yellow  on  the  bough  :  — 
Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head  ! 
Ye  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragrance  shed 
Around  a  younger  brow  ! 

Yet  will  I  temperately  rejoice ; 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice  20 

Of  undiscordant  themes ; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 


iSO  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH, 

Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies, 
And  passion's  feverish  dreams. 

For  deathless  powers  to  verse  belong, 

And  they  like  Demi-gods  are  strong 

On  whom  the  Muses  smile  ; 

But  some  their  function  have  disclaimed, 

Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 

To  enervate  and  defile.  3° 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 

Committed  to  the  silent  plains 

In  Britain's  earliest  dawn  : 

Trembled  the  groves,  the  stars  grew  pale, 

While  all-too-daringly  the  veil 

Of  nature  was  withdrawn  ! 

Nor  such  the  spirit-stirring  note 

When  the  live  chords  Alcaeus  smote. 

Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong ; 

Woe  !  woe  to  Tyrants  !  from  the  lyre  4° 

Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 

Of  fierce  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallowed  was  the  page 
By  winged  Love  inscribed,  to  assuage 
The  pangs  of  vain  pursuit ; 
Love  listening  while  the  Lesbian  Maid 
With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 
Her  own  ^olian  lute. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  251 

O  ye,  who  patiently  explore 

The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore,  5° 

What  rapture  !  could  ye  seize 

Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unroll 

One  precious,  tender-hearted  scroll 

Of  pure  Simonides. 

That  were,  indeed,  a  genuine  birth 

Of  poesy ;  a  bursting  forth 

Of  genius  from  the  dust : 

What  Horace  gloried  to  behold. 

What  Maro  loved,  shall  we  enfold  ? 

Can  haughty  Time  be  just !  60 


THE   RIVER   DUDDON. 

TO  THE  REV.   DR.   WORDSWORTH.      (WITH   THE  SONNETS   TO 
THE   RIVER   DUDDON.) 

1820.  —  1820. 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage-eaves ; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 
The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 
That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 

Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings  : 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze, 

Nor  check,  the  music  of  the  strings ;  k 


252  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand  ! 

And  who  but  listened  ?  —  till  was  paid 
Respect  to  every  Inmate's  claim  : 
The  greeting  given,  the  music  played, 
In  honor  of  each  household  name, 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 
And  "  Merry  Christmas  "  wished  to  all ! 

O  Brother  !  I  revere  the  choice 

That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills ;  20 

And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice  : 

Though  public  care  full  often  tills 

(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 

A  barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  Thou,  with  me  and  mine, 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite  ; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 

A  true  revival  of  the  light 

Which  Nature  and  these  rustic  Powers, 

In  simple  childhood,  spread  through  ours  !  3° 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds ; 
Whether  the  rich  man's  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds. 
Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  253 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 

Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 

To  hear  —  and  sink  again  to  sleep  ! 

Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark,  40 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 

Of  self-complacent  innocence ; 

The  mutual  nod,  —  the  grave  disguise 

Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o'er ; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more ; 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 

For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

Ah  !  not  for  emerald  fields  alone, 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright         5^ 

Than  fabled  Cytherea's  zone 

Glittering  before  the  Thunderer's  sight, 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared 

The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared  ! 

Hail,  ancient  Manners  !  sure  defence, 

Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws  ; 

Remnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 

Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws ; 

Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould. 

And  ye  that  guard  them,  Mountains  old  !  60 

Bear  with  me.  Brother !  quench  the  thought 
That  slights  this  passion,  or  condemns ; 
If  thee  fond  Fancy  ever  brought 
From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames, 


254  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  Lambeth's  venerable  towers, 

To  humbler  streams,  and  greener  bowers. 

Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find. 

Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days ; 

Moments,  to  cast  a  look  behind. 

And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays  70 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal. 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

Hence,  while  the  imperial  City's  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 
A  pleased  attention  I  may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe. 
That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 
But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy  1 


MEMORY. 

1823. —1827. 

A  PEN  —  to  register  ;  a  key  — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards ; 
Are  well  assigned  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 

A  Pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 

Outstrips  the  heart's  demand ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  255 

That  smooths  foregone  distress,  the  lines 

Of  lingering  care  subdues,  ^o 

Long-vanished  happiness  refines. 

And  clothes  in  brighter  hues ; 

Yet,  like  a  tool  of  Fancy,  works 
Those  Spectres  to  dilate 
That  starde  Conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

O  that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast, 

In  purity  were  such 

That  not  an  image  of  the  past 

Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch !  20 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook- 
Contented  and  serene ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep, 
In  frosty  moonlight  glistening ; 
Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 
'Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 
To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 


256  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


TO  THE  LADY   FLEMING, 

ON   SEEING  THE  FOUNDATION  PREPARING  FOR  THE   ERECTION 
OF   RYDAL  CHAPEL,  WESTMORELAND. 

1823.— 1827. 
I. 

Blest  is  this  Isle,  —  our  native  Land ; 

Where  battlement  and  moated  gate 

Are  objects  only  for  the  hand 

Of  hoary  Time  to  decorate  ; 

Where  shady  hamlet,  town  that  breathes 

Its  busy  smoke  in  social  wreaths. 

No  rampart's  stern  defence  require, 

Naught  but  the  heaven-directed  spire, 

And  steeple  tower  (with  pealing  bells 

Far  heard)  —  our  only  citadels.  10 

II. 

O  Lady  !  from  a  noble  line 

Of  chieftains  sprung,  who  stoutly  bore 

The  spear,  yet  gave  to  works  divine 

A  bounteous  help  in  days  of  yore 

(As  records  mouldering  in  the  Dell 

Of  Nightshade  haply  yet  may  tell)  ; 

Thee  kindred  aspirations  moved 

To  build,  within  a  vale  beloved, 

For  Him  upon  whose  high  behests 

All  peace  depends,  all  safety  rests.  20 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  257 

III. 

How  fondly  will  the  woods  embrace 

This  daughter  of  thy  pious  care, 

Lifting  her  front  with  modest  grace 

To  make  a  fair  recess  more  fair ; 

And  to  exalt  the  passing  hour, 

Or  soothe  it  with  a  healing  power 

Drawn  from  the  Sacrifice  fulfilled 

Before  this  rugged  soil  was  tilled, 

Or  human  habitation  rose 

To  interrupt  the  deep  repose  1  30 

IV. 

Well  may  the  villagers  rejoice  ! 

Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weary  ways, 

Will  be  a  hindrance  to  the  voice 

That  would  unite  in  prayer  and  praise ; 

More  duly  shall  wild  wandering  Youth 

Receive  the  curb  of  sacred  truth, 

Shall  tottering  Age,  bent  earthward,  hear 

The  Promise,  with  uplifted  ear ; 

And  all  shall  welcome  the  new  ray 

Imparted  to  their  Sabbath-day.  40 


Nor  deem  the  Poet's  hope  misplaced, 
His  fancy  cheated  —  that  can  see 
A  shade  upon  the  future  cast, 
Of  time's  pathetic  sanctity ; 
Can  hear  the  monitory  clock 
Sound  o'er  the  lake  with  gentle  shock 
17 


258  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

At  evening,  when  the  ground  beneath 

Is  ruffled  o'er  with  cells  of  death ; 

Where  happy  generations  lie, 

Here  tutored  for  eternity.  50 

VI. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  sole  delights 

Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise, 

Hardening  a  heart  that  loathes  or  slights 

What  every  natural  heart  enjoys? 

Who  never  caught  a  noon-tide  dream 

From  murmur  of  a  running  stream  ; 

Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 

To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields ; 

And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 

In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds  ?  6a 

vn. 

A  soul  so  pitiably  forlorn, 

If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide, 

May  season  apathy  with  scorn. 

May  turn  indifference  to  pride  ; 

And  still  be  not  unblest  —  compared 

With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 

From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 

Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope  ; 

Or,  shipwrecked,  kindles  on  the  coast 

False  fires,  that  others  may  be  lost.  70 

VIII. 

Alas  !  that  such  perverted  zeal 

Should  spread  on  Britain's  favored  ground ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  259 

That  public  order,  private  weal, 

Should  e'er  have  felt  or  feared  a  wound 

From  champions  of  the  desperate  law 

Which  from  their  own  blind  hearts  they  draw ; 

Who  tempt  their  reason  to  deny 

God,  whom  their  passions  dare  defy, 

And  boast  that  they  alone  are  free 

Who  reach  this  dire  extremity !  80 

IX. 

But  turn  we  from  these  "  bold,  bad  "  men ; 

The  way,  mild  Lady !  that  hath  led 

Down  to  their  "  dark  opprobrious  den," 

Is  all  too  rough  for  Thee  to  tread. 

Softly  as  morning  vapors  glide 

Down  Rydal-cove  from  Fairfield's  side, 

Should  move  the  tenor  of  his  song 

Who  means  to  charity  no  wrong ; 

Whose  offering  gladly  would  accord 

With  this  day's  work,  in  thought  and  word.  90 


Heaven  prosper  it !  may  peace,  and  love, 

And  hope,  and  consolation  fall. 

Through  its  meek  influence,  from  above, 

And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all ; 

All  who,  around  the  hallowed  Fane, 

Shall  sojourn  in  this  fair  domain ; 

Grateful  to  Thee,  while  service  pure. 

And  ancient  ordinance,  shall  endure. 

For  opportunity  bestowed 

To  kneel  together,  and  adore  their  God  !  100 


26o  SELECTIONS  FROM    WORDSWORTH. 


"O  DEARER  FAR  THAN  LIGHT  AND  LIFE   ARE 
DEAR." 

1824.  — 1827. 

O  DEARER  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear, 
Full  oft  our  human  foresight  I  deplore  ; 
Trembling,  through  my  un worthiness,  with  fear 
That  friends,  by  death  disjoined,  may  meet  no  more  ! 

Misgivings,  hard  to  vanquish  or  control, 
Mix  with  the  day,  and  cross  the  hour  of  rest ; 
While  all  the  future,  for  thy  purer  soul. 
With  "  sober  certainties  "  of  love  is  blest. 

That  sigh  of  thine,  not  meant  for  human  ear. 

Tells  that  these  words  thy  humbleness  offend ;  10 

Yet  bear  me  up  —  else  faltering  in  the  rear 

Of  a  steep  march  :  support  me  to  the  end. 

Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek, 

And  Love  is  dutiful  in  thought  and  deed ; 

Through  Thee  communion  with  that  Love  I  seek : 

The  faith  Heaven  strengthens  where  he  moulds  the  Creed. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  261 


WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  MACPHERSON'S 
OSSIAN. 

1824.  — 1827. 

Oft  have  I  caught,  upon  a  fitful  breeze. 

Fragments  of  far-off  melodies, 

With  ear  not  coveting  the  whole, 

A  part  so  charmed  the  pensive  soul : 

While  a  dark  storm  before  my  sight 

Was  yielding,  on  a  mountain  height 

Loose  vapors  have  I  watched,  that  won 

Prismatic  colors  from  the  sun  ; 

Nor  felt  a  wish  that  heaven  would  show 

The  image  of  its  perfect  bow.  10 

What  need,  then,  of  these  finished  Strains  ? 

Away  with  counterfeit  Remains  ! 

An  abbey  in  its  lone  recess, 

A  temple  of  the  wilderness, 

Wrecks  though  they  be,  announce  with  feeling 

The  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 

Spirit  of  Ossian  !  if  imbound 

In  language  thou  mayst  yet  be  found. 

If  aught  (intrusted  to  the  pen 

Or  floating  on  the  tongues  of  men,  20 

Albeit  shattered  and  impaired) 

Subsist  thy  dignity  to  guard. 

In  concert  with  memorial  claim 

Of  old  gray  stone,  and  high-born  name 

That  cleaves  to  rock  or  pillared  cave 


262  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Where  moans  the  blast,  or  beats  the  wave, 

Let  Truth,  stern  arbitress  of  all. 

Interpret  that  Original, 

And  for  presumptuous  wrongs  atone  j 

Authentic  words  be  given,  or  none  !  3° 

Time  is  not  blind  !  —  yet  He,  who  spares 

Pyramid  pointing  to  the  stars. 

Hath  preyed  with  ruthless  appetite 

On  all  that  marked  the  primal  flight 

Of  the  poetic  ecstasy 

Into  the  land  of  mystery. 

No  tongue  is  able  to  rehearse 

One  measure,  Orpheus  !  of  thy  verse ; 

Musaeus,  stationed  with  his  lyre 

Supreme  among  the  Elysian  quire,  4© 

Is,  for  the  dwellers  upon  earth. 

Mute  as  a  lark  ere  morning's  birth. 

Why  grieve  for  these,  though  past  away 

The  music,  and  extinct  the  lay  ? 

When  thousands,  by  severer  doom. 

Full  early  to  the  silent  tomb 

Have  sunk,  at  Nature's  call ;  or  strayed 

From  hope  and  promise,  self-betrayed ; 

The  garland  withering  on  their  brows. 

Stung  with  remorse  for  broken  vows,  5° 

Frantic  —  else  how  might  they  rejoice? 

And  friendless,  by  their  own  sad  choice  ! 

Hail,  Bards  of  mightier  grasp  !  on  you 
I  chiefly  call,  the  chosen  Few, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  263 

Who  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide, 

Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside  ; 

Whose  lofty  genius  could  survive 

Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive  ; 

In  whom  the  fiery  Muse  revered 

The  symbol  of  a  snow-white  beard,  60 

Bedewed  with  meditative  tears 

Dropped  from  the  lenient  cloud  of  years. 

Brothers  in  soul!  though  distant  times 
Produced  you  nursed  in  various  climes, 
Ye,  when  the  orb  of  life  had  waned, 
A  plenitude  of  love  retained  : 
Hence,  while  in  you  each  sad  regret 
By  corresponding  hope  was  met, 
Ye  lingered  among  human  kind, 
Sweet  voices  for  the  passing  wind  ;  70 

Departing  sunbeams,  loath  to  stop, 
Though  smiling  on  the  last  hill-top  ! 
Such  to  the  tender-hearted  maid 
Even  ere  her  joys  begin  to  fade  ; 
Such,  haply,  to  the  rugged  chief 
By  fortune  crushed,  or  tamed  by  grief; 
Appears,  on  Morven's  lonely  shore. 
Dim-gleaming  through  imperfect  lore, 
The  Son  of  Fingal ;  such  was  blind 
Mseonides  of  ampler  mind ;  80 

Such  Milton,  to  the  fountain-head 
Of  glory  by  Urania  led  I 


264  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

TO  A   SKY-LARK. 

1825.  — 1827. 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  \ 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine  : 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  :  10 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam  ; 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  ! 

TO   MAY. 

1826-34.  — 1835. 

Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 

Since  thou,  blithe  May,  wert  born. 
And  Bards,  who  hailed  thee,  may  forget 

Thy  gifts,  thy  beauty  scorn  ; 
There  are  who  to  a  birthday  strain 

Confine  not  harp  and  voice. 
But  evermore  throughout  thy  reign 

Are  grateful  and  rejoice  ! 

Delicious  odors  !  music  sweet, 
Too  sweet  to  pass  away  !  10 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  26$ 

Oh  for  a  deathless  song  to  meet 

The  soul's  desire  —  a  lay 
That,  when  a  thousand  years  are  told, 

Should  praise  thee,  genial  Power  ! 
Through  summer  heat,  autumnal  cold, 

And  winter's  dreariest  hour. 

Earth,  sea,  thy  presence  feel  —  nor  less, 

If  yon  ethereal  blue 
With  its  soft  smile  the  truth  express, 

The  heavens  have  felt  it  too.  20 

The  inmost  heart  of  man  if  glad 

Partakes  a  livelier  cheer ; 
And  eyes  that  cannot  but  be  sad 

Let  fall  a  brightened  tear. 

Since  thy  return,  through  days  and  weeks 

Of  hope  that  grew  by  stealth, 
How  many  wan  and  faded  cheeks 

Have  kindled  into  health  ! 
The  Old,  by  thee  revived,  have  said, 

"  Another  year  is  ours ;  "  30 

And  wayworn  Wanderers,  poorly  fed, 

Have  smiled  upon  thy  flowers. 

Who  tripping  lisps  a  merry  song 

Amid  his  playful  peers  ? 
The  tender  Infant  who  was  long 

A  prisoner  of  fond  fears  ; 
But  now,  when  every  sharp-edged  blast 

Is  quiet  in  its  sheath, 
His  Mother  leaves  him  free  to  taste 

Earth's  sweetness  in  thy  breath.  40 


266  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Thy  help  is  with  the  weed  that  creeps 

Along  the  humblest  ground ; 
No  cHff  so  bare  but  on  its  steeps 

Thy  favors  may  be  found ; 
But  most  on  some  pecuHar  nook 

That  our  own  hands  have  drest, 
Thou  and  thy  train  are  proud  to  look, 

And  seem  to  love  it  best. 

And  yet  how  pleased  we  wander  forth 

When  May  is  whispering,  **  Come  !  5^ 

Choose  from  the  bowers  of  virgin  earth 

The  happiest  for  your  home  ; 
Heaven's  bounteous  love  through  me  is  spread 

From  sunshine,  clouds,  winds,  waves, 
Drops  on  the  mouldering  turret's  head 

And  on  your  turf-clad  graves  !  " 

Such  greeting  heard,  away  with  sighs 

For  lilies  that  must  fade, 
Or  ^  the  rathe  primrose  as  it  dies 

Forsaken  '  in  the  shade  !  60 

Vernal  fruitions  and  desires 

Are  linked  in  endless  chase  ; 
While,  as  one  kindly  growth  retires, 

Another  takes  its  place. 

And  what  if  thou,  sweet  May,  hast  known 

Mishap  by  worm  and  blight ; 
If  expectations  newly  blown 

Have  perished  in  thy  sight ; 
If  loves  and  joys,  while  up  they  sprung, 

Were  caught  as  in  a  snare,  —  ?o 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  267 

Such  is  the  lot  of  all  the  young, 
However  bright  and  fair. 

Lo  !  Streams  that  April  could  not  check 

Are  patient  of  thy  rule ; 
Gurgling  in  foamy  water-break, 

Loitering  in  glassy  pool : 
By  thee,  thee  only,  could  be  sent 

Such  gentle  mists  as  glide, 
Curling  with  unconfirmed  intent, 

On  that  green  mountain's  side.  80 

How  delicate  the  leafy  veil 

Through  which  yon  house  of  God 
Gleams  'mid  the  peace  of  this  deep  dale, 

By  few  but  shepherds  trod  ! 
And  lowly  huts,  near  beaten  ways. 

No  sooner  stand  attired 
In  thy  fresh  wreaths,  than  they  for  praise 

Peep  forth,  and  are  admired. 

Season  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Permit  not  for  one  hour  90 

A  blossom  from  thy  crown  to  drop, 

Nor  add  to  it  a  flower  ! 
Keep,  lovely  May,  as  if  by  touch 

Of  self-restraining  art. 
This  modest  charm  of  not  too  much, 

Part  seen,  imagined  part ! 


268  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE   PILLAR   OF  TRAJAN. 

1826.  —  1827. 

Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds 

O'er  mutilated  arches  shed  their  seeds  ; 

And  temples,  doomed  to  milder  change,  unfold 

A  new  magnificence  that  vies  with  old ; 

Firm  in  its  pristine  majesty  hath  stood 

A  votive  Column,  spared  by  fire  and  flood  :  — 

And,  though  the  passions  of  man's  fretful  race 

Have  never  ceased  to  eddy  round  its  base, 

Not  injured  more  by  touch  of  meddling  hands 

Than  a  lone  obelisk  'mid  Nubian  sands,  10 

Or  aught  in  Syrian  deserts  left  to  save 

From  death  the  memory  of  the  good  and  brave. 

Historic  figures  round  the  shaft  embost 

Ascend,  with  hneaments  in  air  not  lost : 

Still  as  he  turns,  the  charmed  spectator  sees 

Group  winding  after  group  with  dream-like  ease, 

Triumphs  in  sunbright  gratitude  displayed. 

Or  softly  stealing  into  modest  shade. 

—  So,  pleased  with  purple  clusters  to  entwine 

Some  lofty  elm-tree,  mounts  the  daring  vine  ;  20 

The  woodbine  so,  with  spiral  grace,  and  breathes 

Wide-spreading  odors  from  her  flowery  wreaths. 

Borne  by  the  Muse  from  rills  in  shepherds'  ears, 
Murmuring  but  one  smooth  story  for  all  years, 
I  gladly  commune  with  the  mind  and  heart 
Of  him  who  thus  survives  by  classic  art. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  269 

His  actions  witness,  venerate  his  mien, 

And  study  Trajan  as  by  Pliny  seen ; 

Behold  how  fought  the  Chief  whose  conquering  sword 

Stretched  far  as  earth  might  own  a  single  lord ;  30 

In  the  delight  of  moral  prudence  schooled, 

How  feelingly  at  home  the  Sovereign  ruled ; 

Best  of  the  good  —  in  Pagan  faith  allied 

To  more  than  Man,  by  virtue  deified. 


Memorial  Pillar  !  'mid  the  wrecks  of  Time 
Preserve  thy  charge  with  confidence  sublime,  — 
The  exultations,  pomps,  and  cares  of  Rome, 
Whence  half  the  breathing  world  received  its  doom  ; 
Things  that  recoil  from  language  ;  that,  if  shown 
By  apter  pencil,  from  the  light  had  flown.  40 

A  Pontiff,  Trajan  here  the  Gods  implores,"  • 
There  greets  an  Embassy  from  Indian  shores ; 
Lo  !  he  harangues  his  cohorts  —  there  the  storm 
Of  battle  meets  him  in  authentic  form  ! 
Unharnessed,  naked,  troops  of  Moorish  horse 
Sweep  to  the  charge ;  more  high,  the  Dacian  force 
To  hoof  and  finger  mailed  :  yet,  high  or  low, 
None  bleed,  and  none  lie  prostrate  but  the  foe. 
In  every  Roman,  through  all  turns  of  fate, 
Is  Roman  dignity  inviolate  ;  50 

Spirit  in  him  pre-eminent,  who  guides. 
Supports,  adorns,  and  over  all  presides ; 
Distinguished  only  by  inherent  state 
From  honored  Instruments  that  round  him  wait ; 
Rise  as  he  may,  his  grandeur  scorns  the  test 
Of  outward  symbol,  nor  will  deign  to  rest 


2  70  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

On  aught  by  which  another  is  deprest. 

—  Alas  !  that  One  thus  disciplined  could  toil 

To  enslave  whole  nations  on  their  native  soil ; 

So  emulous  of  Macedonian  fame,  60 

That,  when  his  age  was  measured  with  his  aim, 

He  drooped,  'mid  else  unclouded  victories,  | 

And  turned  his  eagles  back  with  deep-drawn  sighs ; 

O  weakness  of  the  Great !  O  folly  of  the  Wise  ! 

Where  now  the  haughty  Empire  that  was  spread 
With  such  fond  hope  ?    Her  very  speech  is  dead ; 
Yet  glorious  Art  the  power  of  Time  defies, 
And  Trajan  still,  through  various  enterprise, 
Mounts,  in  this  fine  illusion,  toward  the  skies : 
Still  are  we  present  with  the  imperial  Chief,  7^ 

Nor  cease  to  gaze  upon  the  bold  Relief 
Till  Rome,  to  silent  marble  unconfined, 
Becomes  with  all  her  years  a  vision  of  the  Mind. 


THE   WISHING-GATE. 

1828. —  1829. 

In  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  by  the  side  of  the  old  highway  leading  to 
Ambleside,  is  a  gate,  which,  time  out  of  mind,  has  been  called  the 
Wishing-gate,  from  a  belief  that  wishes  formed  or  indulged  there 
have  a  favorable  issue. 

Hope  rules  a  land  forever  green : 

All  powers  that  serve  the  bright-eyed  Queen 

Are  confident  and  gay ; 
Clouds  at  her  bidding  disappear  ; 
Points  she  to  aught  ?  —  the  bliss  draws  near, 

And  Fancy  smooths  the  way. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  271 

Not  such  the  land  of  Wishes  —  there 
Dwell  fruitless  day-dreams,  lawless  prayer, 

And  thoughts  with  things  at  strife  ; 
Yet  how  forlorn,  should  ye  depart,  10 

Ye  superstitions  of  the  heart., 

How  poor,  were  human  life  ! 

When  magic  lore  abjured  its  might, 
Ye  did  not  forfeit  one  dear  right. 

One  tender  claim  abate ; 
Witness  this  symbol  of  your  sway, 
Surviving  near  the  public  way, 

The  rustic  Wishing-gate  ! 

Inquire  not  if  the  faery  race 

Shed  kindly  influence  on  the  place,  20 

Ere  northward  they  retired ; 
If  here  a  warrior  left  a  spell. 
Panting  for  glory  as  he  fell ; 

Or  here  a  saint  expired. 

Enough  that  all  around  is  fair. 
Composed  with  Nature's  finest  care, 

And  in  her  fondest  love  — 
Peace  to  embosom  and  content  — 
To  overawe  the  turbulent. 

The  selfish  to  reprove.  3° 

Yea  !  even  the  Stranger  from  afar, 
Reclining  on  this  moss-grown  bar, 
Unknowing  and  unknown. 


272  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

The  infection  of  the  ground  partakes, 
Longing  for  his  Beloved  —  who  makes 
All  happiness  her  own. 

Then  why  should  conscious  Spirits  fear 
The  mystic  stirrings  that  are  here, 

The  ancient  faith  disclaim  ? 
The  local  Genius  ne'er  befriends  40 

Desires  whose  course  in  folly  ends. 

Whose  just  reward  is  shame. 

Smile  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  in  scorn, 
If  some,  by  ceaseless  pains  outworn, 

Here  crave  an  easier  lot ; 
If  some  have  thirsted  to  renew 
A  broken  vow,  or  bind  a  true, 

With  firmer,  holier  knot. 

And  not  in  vain,  when  thoughts  are  cast 

Upon  the  irrevocable  past,  50 

Some  Penitent  sincere 
May  for  a  worthier  future  sigh. 
While  trickles  from  his  dowijcast  eye 

No  unavailing  tear. 

The  Worldling,  pining  to  be  freed 
From  turmoil,  who  would  turn  or  speed 

The  current  of  his  fate, 
Might  stop  before  this  favored  scene. 
At  Nature's  call,  nor  blush  to  lean 

Upon  the  Wishing-gate.  60 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  273 

The  Sage,  who  feels  how  blind,  how  weak 
Is  man,  though  loath  such  help  to  seek^ 

Yet,  passing,  here  might  pause, 
And  thirst  for  insight  to  allay 
Misgiving,  while  the  crimson  day 

In  quietness  withdraws ; 

Or  when  the  church-clock's  knell  profound 
To  Time's  first  step  across  the  bound 

Of  midnight  makes  reply ; 
Time  pressing  on  with  starry  crest,  70 

To  filial  sleep  upon  the  breast 

Of  dread  eternity. 


THE  WISHING-GATE   DESTROYED. 

1828. —  1842. 

'T  IS  gone,  —  with  old  belief  and  dream 
That  round  it  clung,  and  tempting  scheme 

Released  from  fear  and  doubt ; 
And  the  bright  landscape  too  must  lie, 
By  this  blank  wall  from  every  eye 

Relentlessly  shut  out. 

Bear  witness,  ye  who  seldom  passed 
That  opening  —  but  a  look  ye  cast 

Upon  the  lake  below, 
What  spirit-stirring  power  it  gained  10 

From  faith  which  here  was  entertained, 

Though  reason  might  say  no. 
18 


»74  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Blest  is  that  ground,  where,  o'er  the  springs 
Of  history.  Glory  claps  her  wings, 

Fame  sheds  the  exulting  tear ; 
Yet  earth  is  wide,  and  many  a  nook 
Unheard  of  is,  like  this,  a  book 

For  modest  meanings  dear. 

It  was  in  sooth  a  happy  thought 

That  grafted,  on  so  fair  a  spot,  20 

So  confident  a  token 
Of  coming  good ;  —  the  charm  is  fled ; 
Indulgent  centuries  spun  a  thread. 

Which  one  harsh  day  has  broken. 

Alas  for  him  who  gave  the  word  ! 
Could  he  no  sympathy  afford. 

Derived  from  earth  or  heaven, 
To  hearts  so  oft  by  hope  betrayed 
Their  very  wishes  wanted  aid 

Which  here  was  freely  given  ?  30 

Where,  for  the  love-lorn  maiden's  wound. 
Will  now  so  readily  be  found 

A  balm  of  expectation  ? 
Anxious  for  far-off  children,  where 
Shall  mothers  breathe  a  like  sweet  air 

Of  home-felt  consolation  ? 

And  not  unfelt  will  prove  the  loss 
'Mid  trivial  care  and  petty  cross 
And  each  day's  shallow  grief; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  275 

Though  the  most  easily  beguiled  40 

Were  oft  among  the  first  that  smiled 
At  their  own  fond  behef. 

If  still  the  reckless  change  we  mourn, 
A  reconciling  thought  may  turn 

To  harm  that  might  lurk  here, 
Ere  judgment  prompted  from  within 
Fit  aims,  with  courage  to  begin, 

And  strength  to  persevere. 

Not  Fortune's  slave  is  Man  :  our  state 

Enjoins,  while  firm  resolves  await  50 

On  wishes  just  and  wise. 
That  strenuous  action  follow  both. 
And  life  be  one  perpetual  growth 

Of  heavenward  enterprise. 

So  taught,  so  trained,  we  boldly  face 
All  accidents  of  time  and  place  ; 

Whatever  props  may  fail. 
Trust  in  that  sovereign  law  can  spread 
New  glory  o'er  the  mountain's  head, 

Fresh  beauty  through  the  vale.  60 

That  truth  informing  mind  and  heart, 
The  simplest  cottager  may  part, 

Ungrieved,  with  charm  and  spell ; 
And  yet,  lost  Wishing-gate,  to  thee 
The  voice  of  grateful  memory 

Shall  bid  a  kind  farewell ! 


276  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


"IN  THESE  FAIR  VALES  HATH  MANY  A  TREE.'» 

1830.  — 1835. 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree 

At  Wordsworth's  suit  been  spared ; 
And  from  the  builder's  hand  this  Stone, 
For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own, 

Was  rescued  by  the  Bard  : 
So  let  it  rest ;  and  time  will  come 

When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a  gentle  sigh  for  him, 

As  one  of  the  departed. 


THE   PRIMROSE   OF   THE   ROCK. 
1831.-1835. 

A  Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 

The  passing  traveller  slights  ; 
Yet  there  the  glow-worms  hang  their  lamps, 

Like  stars,  at  various  heights  : 
And  one  coy  Primrose  to  that  Rock 

The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged. 

What  kingdoms  overthrown, 
Since  first  I  spied  that  Primrose-tuft 

And  marked  it  for  my  own ; 
A  lasting  link  in  Nature's  chain 

From  highest  heaven  let  down  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  277 

The  flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems, 

Their  fellowship  renew : 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  ; 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 

Though  threatening  still  to  fall ;  20 

The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere ; 

And  God  upholds  them  all : 
So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 

Her  annual  funeral. 

Here  closed  the  meditative  strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day, 
The  hoary  mountain-heights  were  cheered, 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay. 
And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

I  gave  this  after-lay.  30 

I  sang  —  Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  Thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Revive  unenvied  ;  —  mightier  far, 

Than  tremblings  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope, 

Is  God's  redeeming  love ; 

That  love  which  changed  —  for  wan  disease, 

For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
0*er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age  — 

Their  moral  element,  40 

And  turned  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 


278  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too, 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  called 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again ; 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 

This  prescience  from  on  high,  50 

The  faith  that  elevates  the  just. 

Before  and  when  they  die ; 
And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  heaven, 

A  court  for  Deity. 


YARROW   REVISITED. 

1831.  — 1835. 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained. 

Or  seeks,  a  **  winsome  Marrow," 
Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 

When  first  I  looked  on  Yarrow ; 
Once  more,  by  Newark's  Castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  warder, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  Thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border  ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day, 
Their  dignity  installing  10 

In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 
Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  279 

But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleamed  — 

The  forest  to  embolden ; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation ; 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

For  quiet  contemplation  :  20 

No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  free-born  mind  enthralling, 
We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appeared,  the  mom  of  youth, 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly,  — 
Life's  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve, 

Her  Night  not  melancholy ; 
Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united,  30 

Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

By  cordial  love  invited. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 

And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing ; 
If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over. 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover.  40 


28o  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment ! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment ; 
Albeit  sickness,  lingering  yet. 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded ; 
And  Care  waylays  their  steps,  —  a  Sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott  !  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot  50 

For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes  ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorrento's  breezy  waves  ; 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking  ! 

O  !  while  they  minister  to  thee. 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 
May  Health  return  to  mellow  Age 

With  strength  her  venturous  brother ;  60 

And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 

Renowned  in  song  and  story. 
With  unimagined  beauty  shine. 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory  ! 

For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  281 

And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 

Wherever  they  invite  Thee,  7° 

At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call, 
With  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 

When  first  I  gazed  upon  her ; 
Beheld  what  I  had  feared  to  see. 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender.  80 

And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 

That  mortals  do  or  suffer. 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, " 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  Romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ;  9° 

Unsanctifies  our  tears  —  made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections : 
Ah,  no  !  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is  —  our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 


282  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Bear  witness,  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  centred ; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  entered ;  icx) 

And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "  last  Minstrel,"  (not  the  last !) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted. 

Flow  on  forever,  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty. 
Well  pleased  that  future  Bards  should  chant 

For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty ; 
To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine,  iio 

And  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel. 

To  memory's  shadowy  moonshine  ! 


ON   THE   DEPARTURE   OF    SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

FROM  ABBOTSFORD,   FOR   NAPLES. 

1831.  — 1835. 

A  TROUBLE,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain. 
Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 
Engendered,  hangs  o'er  Eildon's  triple  height : 
Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 
For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 
While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a  blithe  strain, 
Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 
Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  Mourners  !  for  the  might 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH,  283 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes ; 
Blessings  and  prayers,  in  nobler  retinue  10 

Than  sceptred  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  knows, 
Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.     Be  true, 
Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea, 
Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope  ! 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS. 

"  Not  to  the  earth  confined, 
Ascend  to  heaven." 

1832.— 1835. 

Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  Powers, 

The  Spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 

They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 

Where'er  the  streams  a  passage  find ; 

Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 

In  mute  aerial  harmonies  ; 

From  humble  violet  —  modest  thyme  — 

Exhaled,  the  essential  odors  climb. 

As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 

Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy  :  10 

Heaven  will  not  tax  our  thoughts  with  pride 

If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May-showers, 
The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers, 
That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  notes 
Of  rapture  from  a  thousand  throats  — 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Here  checked  by  too  impetuous  haste, 

While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste,  20 

With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged. 

Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged ; 

Give  ear,  O  Man  !  to  their  appeal 

And  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal, 

Thou,  who  canst  ihink^  as  well  as  feel. 

Mount  from  the  earth ;  aspire  !  aspire  ! 
So  pleads  the  town's  cathedral  quire. 
In  strains  that  from  their  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a  loftier  flight ; 
While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes  30 

Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths ; 
Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper-lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  Forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter's  skill, 
That  on  the  service  wait  concealed 
One  moment,  and  the  next  revealed. 
—  Cast  off"  your  bonds,  awake,  arise, 
And  for  no  transient  ecstasies  ! 
What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea  40 

Of  still  or  moving  imagery,  — 
The  iterated  summons  loud, 
Not  wasted  on  the  attendant  crowd, 
Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  the  busy  streets  along  ? 

Alas  !  the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualize  the  mind 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  285 

Decay  and  languish  ;  or,  as  creeds 

And  humors  change,  are  spurned  like  weeds  : 

The  priests  are  from  their  altars  thrust ;  5° 

Temples  are  levelled  with  the  dust ; 

And  solemn  rites  and  awful  forms 

Founder  amid  fanatic  storms. 

Yet  evermore,  through  years  renewed 

In  undisturbed  vicissitude 

Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 

On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 

Kind  Nature  keeps  a  heavenly  door 

Wide  open  for  the  scattered  Poor. 

Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies  60 

Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies ; 

And  ground  fresh-cloven  by  the  plough 

Is  fragrant  with  a  humbler  vow ; 

Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leafy  dells 

Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles, 

And  vapors  magnify  and  spread 

The  glory  of  the  sun's  bright  head,  — 

Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 

Conforming  to  the  eternal  Will, 

Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields,  70 

Divine  monition  Nature  yields. 

That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live. 

Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  can  give  ; 

That  every  day  should  leave  some  part 

Free  for  a  Sabbath  of  the  heart : 

So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest, 

From  morn  to  eve,  with  hallowed  rest. 


286  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


"IF  THOU  INDEED." 

?--i832. 

If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven, 

Then  to  the  measure  of  that  heaven-born  light, 

Shine,  Poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content. 

The  stars  pre-eminent  in  magnitude, 

And  they  that  from  the  zenith  dart  their  beams, 

(Visible  though  they  be  to  half  the  earth, 

Though  half  a  sphere  be  conscious  of  their  brightness). 

Are  yet  of  no  diviner  origin. 

No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that  burns, 

Like  an  untended  watch-fire  on  the  ridge  lo 

Of  some  dark  mountain  ;  or  than  those  which  seem 

Humbly  to  hang,  like  twinkling  winter  lamps, 

Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 

Then  to  the  measure  of  the  light  vouchsafed, 

Shine,  Poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content. 


"IF  THIS  GREAT  WORLD   OF   JOY  AND  PAIN." 

1833.-1835. 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track ; 
If  freedom,  set,  will  rise  again. 

And  virtue,  flown,  come  back ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  287 


"NOT  IN  THE  LUCID  INTERVALS  OF  LIFE." 

1834.  — 1835. 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 

That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  party  strife ; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a  sigh 

Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor  slave 

Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon's  cave  — 

Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be ;  nor  do  words, 

Which  practised  talent  readily  affords, 

Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chords ; 

Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move  10 

With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 

The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dare  to  take 

Life's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's  sake ; 

Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 

Of  all  the  truly  great  and  all  the  innocent. 

But  who  is  innocent?    By  grace  divine. 
Not  otherwise,  O  Nature  !  we  are  thine. 
Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degree 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 

To  all  that  Earth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing,  20 

And  Heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing, 
Add  every  charm  the  Universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo  — 
Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed  ; 
No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field. 


SELECTIONS  FROM    WORDSWORTH. 

Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace. 

If  He,  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 

Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 

Come  not  to  speed  the  Soul's  deliverance ; 

To  the  distempered  Intellect  refuse  3° 

His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse. 


TO   A   CHILD. 

WRITTEN  IN   HER  ALBUM. 
1834.-1835. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts. 

Of  humblest  Friends,  bright  Creature !  scorn  not  one ; 

The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  Sun. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 
1835.— 1835. 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory 

This  Stone  is  sacred.     Here  he  lies  apart 

From  the  great  city  where  he  first  drew  breath, 

Was  reared  and  taught ;  and  humbly  earned  his  bread, 

To  the  strict  labors  of  the  merchant's  desk 

By  duty  chained.     Not  seldom  did  those  tasks 

Tease,  and  the  thought  of  time  so  spent  depress, 

His  spirit,  but  the  recompense  was  high ; 

Firm  Independence,  Bounty's  rightful  sire ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  289 

Affections,  warm  as  sunshine,  free  as  air ;  10 

And  when  the  precious  hours  of  leisure  came, 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  gained  from  converse  sweet 

With  books,  or  while  he  ranged  the  crowded  streets 

With  a  keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart : 

So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong, 

And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  thoughtful  love 

Inspired  —  works  potent  over  smiles  and  tears. 

And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning  plays, 

Thus  innocently  sported,  breaking  forth 

As  from  a  cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy,  ^ 

Humor  and  wild  instinctive  wit,  and  all 

The  vivid  flashes  of  his  spoken  words. 

From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in  fields 

Had  been  derived  the  name  he  bore  —  a  name, 

Wherever  Christian  altars  have  been  raised. 

Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence ; 

And  if  in  him  meekness  at  times  gave  way, 

Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange, 

Many  and  strange,  that  hung  about  his  life ; 

Still,  at  the  centre  of  his  being,  lodged  3° 

A  soul  by  resignation  sanctified  : 

And  if  too  often,  self-reproached,  he  felt 

That  innocence  belongs  not  to  our  kind, 

A  power  that  never  ceased  to  abide  in  him, 

Charity,  'mid  the  multitude  of  sins 

That  she  can  cover,  left  not  his  exposed 

To  an  unforgiving  judgment  from  just  Heaven. 

Oh,  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  Man  lived  ! 

From  a  reflecting  mind  and  sorrowing  heart 

Those  simple  lines  flowed  with  an  earnest  wish,  40 


290  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Though  but  a  doubting  hope,  that  they  might  serve 

Fitly  to  guard  the  precious  dust  of  him 

Whose  virtues  called  them  forth.     That  aim  is  missed ; 

For  much  that  truth  most  urgently  required 

Had  from  a  faltering  pen  been  asked  in  vain : 

Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received, 

The  imperfect  record,  there,  may  stand  unblamed 

As  long  as  verse  of  mine  shall  breathe  the  air 

Of  memory,  or  see  the  light  of  love. 

Thou  wert  a  scorner  of  the  fields,  my  Friend,  5<5 

But  more  in  show  than  truth ;  and  from  the  fields, 
And  from  the  mountains,  to  thy  rural  grave 
Transported,  my  soothed  spirit  hovers  o'er 
Its  green  untrodden  turf,  and  blowing  flowers ; 
And  taking  up  a  voice,  shall  speak  (tho'  still 
Awed  by  the  theme's  peculiar  sanctity 
Which  words  less  free  presumed  not  even  to  touch) 
Of  that  fraternal  love,  whose  heaven-lit  lamp 
From  infancy,  through  manhood,  to  the  last 
Of  threescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour,  60 

Burnt  on  with  ever- strengthening  light,  enshrined 
Within  thy  bosom. 

"  Wonderful "  hath  been 
The  love  established  between  man  and  man, 
"  Passing  the  love  of  women ;  "  and  between 
Man  and  his  help-mate  in  fast  wedlock  joined 
Through  God,  is  raised  a  spirit  and  soul  of  love 
Without  whose  blissful  influence  Paradise 
Had  been  no  Paradise  ;  and  earth  were  now 
A  waste  where  creatures  bearing  human  form, 
Direst  of  savage  beasts,  would  roim  in  fear,  70 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  291 

Joyless  and  comfortless.     Our  days  glide  on  ; 

And  let  him  grieve  who  cannot  choose  but  grieve 

That  he  hath  been  an  Elm  without  his  Vine, 

And  her  bright  dower  of  clustering  charities, 

That,  round  his  trunk  and  branches,  might  have  clung 

Enriching  and  adorning.     Unto  thee. 

Not  so  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 

Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 

Wert  given  to  her)  a  Sister  —  't  is  a  word 

Timidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek,  80 

The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever-kind  ; 

In  whom  thy  reason  and  intelligent  heart 

Found  —  for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender  cares, 

All  softening,  humanizing,  hallowing  powers. 

Whether  withheld,  or  for  her  sake  unsought  — 

More  than  sufficient  recompense ! 

Her  love 
(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  to  tell  it  here  ?) 
Was  as  the  love  of  mothers ;  and  when  years, 
Lifting  the  boy  to  man's  estate,  had  called 
The  long  protected  to  assume  the  part  9° 

Of  a  protector,  the  first  filial  tie 
Was  undissolved  ;  and,  in  or  out  of  sight. 
Remained  imperishably  interwoven 
With  life  itself.     Thus,  'mid  a  shifting  world, 
Did  they  together  testify  of  time 
And  season's  difference  —  a  double  tree 
With  two  collateral  stems  sprung  from  one  root ; 
Such  were  they  —  such  through  life  they  might  have  been 
In  union,  in  partition  only  such ; 

Otherwise  wrought  the  will  of  the  Most  High ;  100 

Yet  through  all  visitations  and  all  trials, 


292  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

Still  they  were  faithful ;  like  two  vessels  launched 
From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore 
With  mutual  help,  and  sailing  —  to  their  league 
True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars 
Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

But  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  O  silent  and  invisible  Friend  ! 
To  those  dear  intervals,  nor  rare  nor  brief, 
When  reunited,  and  by  choice  withdrawn  no 

From  miscellaneous  converse,  ye  were  taught 
That  the  remembrance  of  foregone  distress. 
And  the  worse  fear  of  future  ill  (which  oft 
Doth  hang  around  it,  as  a  sickly  child 
Upon  its  mother)  may  be  both  alike 
Disarmed  of  power  to  unsettle  present  good 
So  prized,  and  things  inward  and  outward  held 
In  such  an  even  balance,  that  the  heart 
Acknowledges  God's  grace,  his  mercy  feels, 
And  in  its  depth  of  gratitude  is  still.  120 

O  gift  divine  of  quiet  sequestration  ! 
The  hermit,  exercised  in  prayer  and  praise, 
And  feeding  daily  on  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Is  happy  in  his  vow,  and  fondly  cleaves 
To  life-long  singleness  ;  but  happier  far 
Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  of  others, 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  appeared, 
Your  dual  loneliness.     The  sacred  tie 
Is  broken  ;  yet  why  grieve  ?  for  Time  but  holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  Joy  shall  lead  130 

To  the  blest  world  where  parting  is  unknown. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  293 


EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF 
JAMES   HOGG. 

1835.— 1836. 

When  first,  descending  from  the  Moorlands, 

I  saw  the  Stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered, 
Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 
Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways. 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  Mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 

'Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies  ;  10 

And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 

Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 
Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 

The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth : 

And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle. 

Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth.  ao 


294  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits. 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  " 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 

Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath,  30 

On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe  !  forth-looking, 

I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed. 
Thou  too  art  gone  before ;  but  why, 
O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh? 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 

Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep ; 

For  Her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded. 

Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep.  40 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows. 

For  slaughtered  Youth  or  love-lorn  Maid ! 

With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten. 

And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  Poet  dead. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  295 


«S0   FAIR,   SO  SWEET,  WITHAL  SO  SENSITIVE." 

1845.-1845. 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive, 

Would  that  the  little  Flowers  were  born  to  live, 

Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give ; 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow,  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone ! 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  should  mount 
High  as  the  Sun,  that  he  could  take  account 
Of  all  the  issues  from  his  glorious  fount ! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid  10 

These  delicate  companionships  are  made ; 

And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade ;  - 

And  were  the  Sister-power  that  shines  by  night 

So  privileged,  what  a  countenance  of  dehght 

Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human  sight ! 

Fond  fancies  !  wheresoe'er  shall  turn  thine  eye 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  or  the  starry  sky, 
Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled,  s 

Be  Thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled,  20 

Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 


296  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE   REVERIE   OF  POOR  SUSAN. 
1797. — 1800. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

'T  is  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her?    She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  Cottage,  a  nest  Hke  a  dove's. 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes. 

In  the  edition  of  1800  the  following  stanza  is  added  to  the  poems 

Poor  Outcast !  return,  to  receive  thee  once  more 
The  house  of  thy  Father  will  open  its  door. 
And  then  once  again,  in  thy  plain  russet  gown, 
May  'st  hear  the  thrush  sing  from  a  tree  of  its  own. 


SONNETS. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  299 

I. 

1802.  —  1807. 
I  GRIEVED  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief !     The  tenderest  mood 
Of  that  Man's  mind  —  what  can  it  be  ?  what  food 
Fed  his  first  hopes  ?  what  knowledge  could  he  gain  ? 
'T  is  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we  train 
The  Governor  who  must  be  wise  and  good, 
And  temper  with  the  sternness  of  the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  meek  as  womanhood. 
Wisdom  doth  live  with  children  round  her  knees : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the  talk 
Man  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the  hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind's  business ;  these  are  the  degrees 
By  which  true  Sway  doth  mount ;  this  is  the  stalk 
True  Power  doth  grow  on ;  and  her  rights  are  these. 

II. --COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 

1802.— 1807. 
*  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair :  c^ 

Dull  w(5uld  he  be  of  s^ul  who  could  pass  by  \> 

A  si'ght  so  touching  in  i^  majest/^ 


ight^o  touching  in  i^  majesty  :  \^ 

^Tl]i^  City  now  doth,  lil£e  a  gamient,  w^ .  '-         ^ 
The  beauty  of  the  nforning ;  sjlent,  b^e,    •  - '  /      ( 
Ships,  t(^ers,  dmftes,  tlieat];j^§,'  apd  tempTes  lie  ? 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sKy  ;^       y 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  tire  snl^eless  air' 
Never  dici  ^^  more  bemitifufest^p 


In(hjjs1first  si5tendor,  Valley,  r&:k,  or  hm."  '  ** 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,' a  calm  so  d^gp  !  ^ 

y.*^he  fiver  .gtideth  at  his  own  sweet  will  w}^  « 

^••^ear  God  !  the.  very  houses  s^em^asl^p.    '  ^ 

{  And  all  that  nlighty  he^t  is  l^tisg  still*!   ^X^  ^ 


300  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

III.  — BY   THE   SEA-SIDE,  NEAR  CALAIS. 

1802. —  1807. 
Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendor  of  the  west, 
Star  of  my  Country  !  —  on  the  horizon's  brink 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to  sink 
On  England's  bosom ;  yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest, 
Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.     Thou,  I  think, 
Should'st  be  my  Country's  emblem ;  and  should'st  wink, 
Bright  Star,  with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 
In  thy  fresh  beauty  !     There  !  that  dusky  spot 
Beneath  thee,  that  is  England  ;  there  she  lies. 
Blessings  be  on  you  both  !  one  hope,  one  lot, 
One  life,  one  glory  !  —  I,  with  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  Country,  many  heartfelt  sighs, 
Among  men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger  here. 

IV.— CALAIS,  AUGUST,   1802. 
1802.  —  1807. 

Is  it  a  reed  that 's  shaken  by  the  wind, 

Or  what  is  it  that  ye  go  forth  to  see  ? 

Lords,  lawyers,  statesmen,  squires  of  low  degree. 

Men  known,  and  men  unknown,  sick,  lame,  and  blind,  ■ 

Post  forward  all,  like  creatures  of  one  kind. 

With  first-fruit  offerings  crowd  to  bend  the  knee 

In  France,  before  the  new-born  Majesty. 

'T  is  ever  thus.     Ye  men  of  prostrate  mind, 

A  seemly  reverence  may  be  paid  to  power ; 

But  that 's  a  loyal  virtue,  never  sown 

In  haste,  nor  springing  with  a  transient  shower : 

When  truth,  when  sense,  when  liberty  were  flown, 

What  hardship  had  it  been  to  wait  an  hour? 

Shame  on  you,  feeble  Heads,  to  slavery  prone  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH.  30 1 

v.  — COMPOSED   NEAR   CALAIS. 
1802.  —  1807. 
Jones  !  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I 
Went  pacing,  side  by  side,  this  public  Way 
Streamed  with  the  pomp  of  a  too  credulous  day, 
When  faith  was  pledged  to  new-born  Liberty  : 
A  homeless  sound  of  joy  was  in  the  sky  : 
From  hour  to  hour  the  antiquated  Earth 
Beat  like  the  heart  of  Man  :  songs,  garlands,  mirth, 
Banners,  and  happy  faces,  far  and  nigh  ! 
And  now,  sole  register  that  these  things  were, 
Two  solitary  greetings  have  I  heard, 
^^Good-morrow,  Citizen!'^  a  hollow  word. 
As  if  a  dead  man  spake  it !     Yet  despair 
Touches  me  not,  though  pensive  as  a  bird 
Whose  vernal  coverts  winter  hath  laid  bare. 

VL  — CALAIS,   AUGUST   15,   1802. 
1802,  —  1807. 
Festivals  have  I  seen  that  were  not  names  : 
This  is  young  Bonaparte's  natal  day, 
And  his  is  henceforth  an  established  sway  — 
Consul  for  life.     With  worship  France  proclaims 
Her  approbation,  and  with  pomps  and  games. 
Heaven  grant  that  other  Cities  may  be  gay  ! 
Calais  is  not :  and  I  have  bent  my  way 
To  the  sea-coast,  noting  that  each  man  frames 
His  business  as  he  likes.     Far  other  show 
My  youth  here  witnessed,  in  a  prouder  time  : 
The  senselessness  of  Joy  was  then  sublime  !  ■ 
Happy  is  he,  who,  caring  not  for  Pope, 
Consul,  or  King,  can  sound  himself  to  know 
The  destiny  of  Man,  and  live  in  hope. 


302  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

VIL— COMPOSED   ON  THE  BEACH   NEAR  CALAIS. 
1802.  —  1807. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  lo,^^ 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun  . 

Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun  C>-' 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ;^^---^ 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea  :       -^ 

Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly.  i 

Dear  Child  !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here,cA.y 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year;    ^--^ 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine,     W  " 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

VIIL  — EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN  REPUBLIC. 
1802.— 1807. 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee, 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth,  — 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay : 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day : 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  303 

IX.  — TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

1802.—  1807. 
ToussAiNT,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; 

0  miserable  Chieftain  !  where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee,  —  air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies  ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies,  ^^ 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

X.  — SEPTEMBER,   1802,   NEAR  DOVER. 

1802.  —  1807. 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood ; 

And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and  air  was  clear. 

The  coast  of  France  —  the  coast  of  France  how  near  ! 

Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighborhood. 

1  shrunk ;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 

Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair,  — 

A  span  of  waters ;  yet  what  power  is  there  ! 

What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 

Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 

Virtuous  and  wise.     Winds  blow,  and  waters  roll,  * 

Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity ; 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing  !     One  decree 

Spake  laws  to  them^  and  said  that  by  the  soul 

Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 


304  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

XL  — WRITTEN   IN   LONDON,  1802. 
1802.  —  1807. 
O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  hfe  is  only  drest 
For  show ;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 
Or  groom  !  —  We  must  run  ghttering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry  :  :^nd  these  we  adore  : 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more  : 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

XIL— LONDON,  1802.  >. 

1802. —  1807.  \ 

Milton  !  thou  should 'st  be  living  at  this  hour : 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
.Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  ; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way. 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  305 

XIII. 

1802.  — 1807. 

Great  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom  —  better  none  : 

The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 

Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend. 

These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend :     \ 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendor  :  what  strength  was  that  would  not  bend  \ 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.     France,  't  is  strange, 

Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then.  \ 

Perpetual  emptiness  !  unceasing  change !  f 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road ; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men  !  \ 

XIV. 
1802.  — 1807. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters  unwithstood," 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, 
That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish  ;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  forever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armory  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old  : 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake ;  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held.  —  In  everything  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 
20 


3o6  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XV. 

1802.  — 1807. 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  Nations,  how  ennobHng  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country  !  —  am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

Qf  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;   we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

XVI.  — COMPOSED   AT CASTLE. 

1803.  —  1807. 
Degenerate  Douglas  !  oh,  the  unworthy  Lord 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please. 
And  love  of  havoc  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him),  that  he  could  send  forth  word 
To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 

A  brotherhood  of  venerable  Trees, 
Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  d;nd  towers  like  these. 
Beggared  and  outraged  !  —  Many  hearts  deplored 
The  fate  of  those  old  Trees  ;  and  oft  with  pain 
The  traveller,  at  this  day,  will  stop  and  gaze 
On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed  ; 
For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  307 

XVII. 
1803. —  1807. 
There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 
Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof,  and  floor,  and  wall, 
Pent  in,  a  Tyrant's  solitary  Thrall : 
'T  is  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air. 
One  of  a  Nation  who,  henceforth,  must  wear 
Their  fetters  in  their  souls.     For  who  could  be, 
Who,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition,  free 
From  self-reproach,  reproach  that  he  must  share 
With  Human  nature  ?     Never  be  it  ours 
To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shine, 
And  know  that  noble  feelings,  manly  powers, 
Instead  of  gathering  strength,  must  droop  and  pine ; 
And  earth  with  all  her  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers 
Fade,  and  participate  in  man's  decline. 

XVIII.  —  OCTOBER,  1803. 
1803.  — 1807. 
These  times  strike  monied  worldlings  with  dismay : 
Even  rich  men,  brave  by  nature,  taint  the  air 
With  words  of  apprehension  and  despair : 
While  tens  of  thousands,  thinking  on  the  affray, 
Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day 
And  minds  not  stinted  or  untilled  are  given, 
Sound,  healthy,  children  of  the  God  of  heaven, 
Are  cheerful  as  the  rising  sun  in  May. 
What  do  we  gather  hence  but  firmer  faith 
That  every  gift  of  noble  origin 
Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath ; 
That  virtue  and  the  faculties  within 
Are  vital,  —  and  that  riches  are  akin 
To  fear,  to  change,  to  cowardice,  and  death? 


3o8  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XIX. 

1803.  — 1807. 
England  !  the  time  is  come  when  thou  should'st  wean 
Thy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food  ; 
The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood ; 
Old  things  have  been  unsettled  ;  we  have  seen 
Fair  seed-time,  better  harvest  might  have  been 
But  for  thy  trespasses  ;  and,  at  this  day, 
If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 
Aught  good  were  destined,  thou  would'st  step  between. 
England  !  all  nations  in  this  charge  agree  : 
But  worse,  more  ignorant  in  love  and  hate, 
Far  —  far  more  abject,  is  thine  Enemy  : 
Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,  though  the  freight 
Of  thy  offences  be  a  heavy  weight : 
Oh,  grief  that  Earth's  best  hopes  rest  all  with  Thee ! 

XX.  — TO   THE   MEN   OF  KENT. 

1803.  — 1807. 
Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent, 
Ye  children  of  a  Soil  that  doth  advance 
Her  haughty  brow  against  the  coast  of  France, 
Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hardiment ! 
To  France  be  words  of  invitation  sent ! 
They  from  their  fields  can  see  the  countenance 
Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering  lance, 
And  hear  you  shouting  forth  your  brave  intent. 
Left  single,  in  bold  parley,  ye,  of  yore, 
Did  from  the  Norman  win  a  gallant  wreath ; 
Confirmed  the  charters  that  were  yours  before ;  — 
No  parleying  now  !     In  Britain  is  one  breath ; 
We  all  are  with  you  now  from  shore  to  shore  :  • — 
Ye  men  of  Kent,  't  is  victory  or  death  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  309 

XXL  — IN  THE   PASS   OF   KILLICRANKY. 

1803. —  1807. 
Six  thousand  veterans  practised  in  war's  game, 
Tried  men,  at  Killicranky  were  arrayed 
Against  an  equal  host  that  wore  the  plaid, 
Shepherds  and  herdsmen.  —  Like  a  whirlwind  came 
The  Highlanders,  the  slaughter  spread  like  flame ; 
And  Garry,  thundering  down  his  mountain-road, 
Was  stopped,  and  could  not  breathe  beneath  the  load 
Of  the  dead  bodies.  —  'T  was  a  day  of  shame 
For  them  whom  precept  and  the  pedantry 
Of  cold  mechanic  battle  do  enslave. 
Oh  for  a  single  hour  of  that  Dundee 
Who  on  that  day  the  word  of  onset  gave  ! 
Like  conquest  would  the  Men  of  England  see ; 
And  her  Foes  find  a  like  inglorious  grave. 

xxn. 

1806. — 1807. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 

And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells ; 

And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels ; 

Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 

Sit  blithe  and  happy  ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 

High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness-fells, 

Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells : 

In  truth  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 

Ourselves,  no  prison  is  :  and  hence  for  me, 

In  sundry  moods,  't  was  pastime  to  be  bound 

Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground ; 

Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 

Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 

Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


310  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XXIIL  — BY   THE   SIDE   OF  GRASMERE  LAKE. 

1806.  —  1 8 19. 
Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 
Through  the  gray  west ;  and  lo  !  these  waters,  steeled 
By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 
A  vivid  repetition  of  the  stars  ; 
Jove,  Venus,  and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars 
Amid  his  fellows  beauteousfy  revealed 
At  happy  distance  from  earth's  groaning  field, 
Where  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 
Is  it  a  mirror  ?  —  or  the  nether  Sphere 
Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  she  feeds 
Her  own  calm  fires  ?     But  list !  a  voice  is  near ; 
Great  Pan  himself  low-whispering  through  the  reeds,  . 
"  Be  thankful,  thou  ;  for,  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here  ! " 

XXIV. 
1806. —  1807. 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
v^Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howlmg  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  ;  — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ;    , 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn.   ' 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  311 

XXV.  — PERSONAL  TALK. 
1806.-1807. 
I  AM  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk,  — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  neighbors,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies  bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk,  — 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  P'orms  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire ; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim, 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

XXVL  —  CONTINUED. 

1806.  — 1807. 

"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life ;  we  have  seen  and  see, 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe ; 

And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 

The  languid  jnind  into  activity. 

Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 

Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe." 

Even  be  it  so  :  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 

Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me  ! 

Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their  world  lies 

More  justly  balanced  ;  partly  at  their  feet, 

And  part  far  from  them  :  —  Sweetest  melodies 

Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet ; 

Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 

He  is  a  Slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 


312  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XXVII.  —  CONTINUED. 
1806.  — 1807. 
Wings  have  we,  —  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure  :  wilderness  and  wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world ;  and  books,  we  know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good  : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am. 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear,  — 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor  ; 
And  heavenly  Una,  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 

XXVIIL  —  CONCLUDED. 

1806.  — 1807. 
Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine  ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking ;  rancor,  never  sought. 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceably. 
Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 
The  Poets  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  ! 
Oh  !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  313 

XXIX.  — TO   SLEEP. 
1806.  —  1807. 

0  GENTLE  SLEEP  !  do  they  belong  to  thee, 
These  twinklings  of  oblivion  ?     Thou  dost  love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  Dove, 

A  captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 

This  tiresome  night,  O  Sleep  !  thou  art  to  me 

A  Fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove 

Upon  a  fretful  rivulet,  now  above. 

Now  on  the  water  vexed  with  mockery. 

1  have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no ; 
Hence  am  I  cross  and  peevish  as  a  child : 
Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe, 
Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled  : 

0  gentle  Creature  !  do  not  use  me  so, 
But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 

XXX.  — CONTINUED. 
1806. —  1807. 
A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring  ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ;  — 

1  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless  !  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee.  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 


314  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

XXXI.  —  CONCLUDED. 

1806.  —  1807, 
Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep  ! 
And  thou  hast  had  thy  store  of  tenderest  names ; 
The  very  sweetest,  Fancy  culls  or  frames, 
When  thankfulness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep  ! 
Dear  Bosom-child  we  call  thee,  that  dost  steep 
In  rich  reward  all  suffering ;  Bahii  that  tames 
All  anguish  ;  Saint  that  evil  thoughts  and  aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep, 
Like  to  a  breeze  from  heaven.     Shall  I  alone, 
I  surely  not  a  man  ungently  made, 
Call  thee  worst  Tyrant  by  which  Flesh  is  crost? 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown. 
Mere  slave  of  them  who  never  for  thee  prayed, 
Still  last  to  come  where  thou  art  wanted  most ! 

XXXIL  — TO   THE   MEMORY   OF  RAISLEY   CALVERT. 
1806. —  1807. 
Calvert  !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 
Who  may  respect  my  name,  that  I  to  thee 
Owed  many  years  of  early  hberty. 
This  care  was  thine  when  sickness  did  condemn 
Thy  youth  to  hopeless  wasting,  root  and  stem  — 
That  I,  if  frugal  and  severe,  might  stray 
Where'er  I  liked  ;  and  finally  array 
My  temples  with  the  Muse's  diadem. 
Hence,  if  in  freedom  I  have  loved  the  truth; 
If  there  be  aught  of  pure,  or  good,  or  great, 
In  my  past  verse  ;  or  shall  be,  in  the  lays 
Of  higher  mood  which  now  I  meditate. 
It  gladdens  me,  O  worthy,  short-lived  Youth  ! 
To  think  how  much  of  this  will  be  thy  praise. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  3^5 

XXXIIL  — NOVEMBER,  1806. 
1806. — 1807. 
Another  year  !  —  another  deadly  blow  ! 
Another  mighty  Empire  overthrown  ! 
And  We  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone ; 
The  last  that  dare  to  struggle  with  the  Foe. 
'T  is  well !  from  this  day  forward  we  shall  know 
That  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  be  sought ; 
That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be  wrought ; 
That  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid  low. 
O  dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer  ! 
We  shall  exult,  if  they  who  rule  the  land 
Be  men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear, 
Wise,  upright,  valiant ;  not  a  servile  band, 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they  fear, 
And  honor  which  they  do  not  understand. 

XXXIV. —ADMONITION. 
1806.  — 1807. 
Well  mayst  thou  halt  —  and  gaze  with  brightening  eye  ! 
The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirred  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 
But  covet  not  the  Abode  ;  —  forbear  to  sigh, 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 
Intruders  —  who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf,  with  harsh  impiety. 
Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 
Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants  !  —  Roof,  window,  door, 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 
The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine : 
Yea,  all,  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touched,  would  melt  away. 


3l6  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XXXV.  — ON   THE   SUBJUGATION   OF  SWITZERLAND 

1807.—  1807. 
Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea, 
One  of  the  mountains  ;  each  a  mighty  Voice  : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music.  Liberty  ! 
There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought'st  against  him  ;  but  hast  vainly  striven  : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left ; 
For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee  ! 

XXXVL  — TO   THOMAS  CLARKSON. 
1807.— 1807. 
Clarkson  !  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb  : 
How  toilsome  —  nay,  how  dire  —  it  was,  by  thee 
Is  known  ;  by  none,  perhaps,  so  feelingly  : 
But  thou,  who,  starting  in  thy  fervent  prime, 
Didst  first  lead  forth  that  enterprise  sublime, 
Hast  heard  the  constant  Voice  its  charge  repeat, 
Which,  out  of  thy  young  heart's  oracular  seat. 
First  roused  thee.  —  O  true  yoke-fellow  of  Time, 
Duty's  intrepid  liegeman,  see,  the  palm 
Is  won,  and  by  all  Nations  shall  be  worn  ! 
The  blood-stained  Writing  is  forever  torn ; 
And  thou  henceforth  wilt  have  a  good  man's  calm,. 
A  great  man's  happiness  ;  thy  zeal  shall  find 
Repose  at  length,  firm  friend  of  human  kind ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  3i7 

XXXVII. 
1811.  — 1815. 
Here  pause  :  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise, 
That  virtuous  Liberty  hath  been  the  scope 
Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  shrink  from  hope 
In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days ; 
From  hope,  the  paramount  duty  that  Heaven  lays, 
For  its  own  honor,  on  man's  suffering  heart. 
Never  may  from  our  souls  one  truth  depart  — 
That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 
On  prosperous  tyrants  with  a  dazzled  eye ; 
Nor  —  touched  with  due  abhorrence  of  their  guilt 
For  whose  dire  ends  tears  flow,  and  blood  is  spilt, 
And  justice  labors  in  extremity  — 
Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built, 
O  wretched  man,  the  throne  of  tyranny  ! 

XXXVIIL  — TO  B.   R.   HAYDON. 
1815.  — 1816. 
High  is  our  calling.  Friend  !  —  Creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use. 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues), 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive  yet,  in  their  weakest  part. 
Heroically  fashioned  —  to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert. 
And,  oh  !  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may. 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress. 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness  — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard  ! 


3l8  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

XXXIX.— TO   CATHERINE   WORDSWORTH. 
1815.— 1815. 
Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind 
I  turned  to  share  the  transport  —  Oh  !  with  whom 
But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind  — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?     Through  what  power. 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss? — That  thought's  return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn, 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

XL.  — OXFORD,   MAY  30,  1820. 
1820. —  1820. 
Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth  ! 
In  whose  collegiate  shelter  England's  Flowers 
Expand,  enjoying  through  their  vernal  hours 
The  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth ; 
Much  have  ye  suifered  from  Time's  gnawing  tooth : 
Yet,  O  ye  spires  of  Oxford  !  domes  and  towers  ! 
Gardens  and  groves  !  your  presence  overpowers 
The  soberness  of  reason  ;  till,  in  sooth, 
Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a  bold  exchange, 
I  slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 
Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet  ; 
Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 
The  stream-like  windings  of  that  glorious  street  — 
An  eager  Novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  319 

XLI. 

1820.  —  1820. 
Sole  listener.  Duddon  !  to  the  breeze  that  played 
With  thy  clear  voice,  I  caught  the  fitful  sound 
Wafted  o'er  sullen  moss  and  craggy  mound  — 
Unfruitful  solitudes,  that  seemed  to  upbraid 
The  sun  in  heaven  !  —  but  now^  to  form  a  shade 
For  Thee,  green  alders  have  together  wound 
Their  foliage  ;  ashes  flung  their  arms  around ; 
And  birch-trees  risen  in  silver  colonnade. 
And  thou  hast  also  tempted  here  to  rise, 
'Mid  sheltering  pines,  this  Cottage  rude  and  gray ; 
Whose  ruddy  children,  by  the  mother's  eyes 
Carelessly  watched,  sport  through  the  summer  day, 
Thy  pleased  associates  :  —  light  as  endless  May 
On  infant  bosoms  lonely  Nature  Hes. 

XLII.  — SEATHWAITE  CHAPEL. 
1820. —  1820. 

Sacred  Religion  !  "mother  of  form  and  fear," 

Dread  arbitress  of  mutable  respect, 

New  rites  ordaining  when  the  old  are  wrecked, 

Or  cease  to  please  the  fickle  worshipper : 

Mother  of  Love  !  (that  name  best  suits  thee  here) 

Mother  of  Love  !  for  this  deep  vale,  protect 

Truth's  holy  lamp,  pure  source  of  bright  effect. 

Gifted  to  purge  the  vapory  atmosphere 

That  seeks  to  stifle  it ;  —  as  in  those  days 

When  this  low  Pile  a  Gospel  Teacher  knew 

Whose  good  works  formed  an  endless  retinue  : 

A  Pastor  such  as  Chaucer's  verse  portrays ; 

Such  as  the  heaven-taught  skiU  of  Herbert  drew ; 

And  tender  Goldsmith  crowned  with  deathless  praise ! 


320  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

XLIII. 

1820. — 1820. 

Return,  Content !  for  fondly  I  pursued, 

Even  when  a  child,  the  Streams  —  unheard,  unseen  ; 

Through  tangled  woods,  impending  rocks  between ; 

Or,  free  as  air,  with  flying  inquest  viewed 

The  sullen  reservoirs  whence  their  bold  brood  — 

Pure  as  the  morning,  fretful,  boisterous,  keen, 

Green  as  the  salt-sea  billows,  white  and  green  — 

Poured  down  the  hills,  a  choral  multitude  ! 

Nor  have  I  tracked  their  course  for  scanty  gains ; 

They  taught  me  random  cares  and  truant  joys, 

That  shield  from  mischief  and  preserve  from  stains 

Vague  minds,  while  men  are  growing  out  of  boys ; 

Maturer  Fancy  owes  to  their  rough  noise 

Impetuous  thoughts  that  brook  not  servile  reins. 

XLIV. 
1820.  — 1820.  I 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce 

Of  that  serene  companion  —  a  good  name, 

Recovers  not  his  loss  :  but  walks  with  shame, 

With  doubt,  with  fear,  and  haply  with  remorse : 

And  oft-times  he,  who,  yielding  to  the  force 

Of  chance-temptation,  ere  his  journey  end. 

From  chosen  comrade  turns,  or  faithful  friend  — 

In  vain  shall  rue  the  broken  intercourse. 

Not  so  with  such  as  loosely  wear  the  chain 

That  binds  them,  pleasant  River  !  to  thy  side  :  — 

Through  the  rough  copse  wheel  thou  with  hasty  stride  ; 

I  choose  to  saunter  o'er  the  grassy  plain. 

Sure,  when  the  separation  has  been  tried. 

That  we,  who  part  in  love,  shall  meet  again. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  321 

XLV.  —  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

1820.  —  1820. 

I  THOUGHT  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 

As  being  past  away.  —  Vain  sympathies  ! 

For,  backward,  Duddon  !  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 

I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 

Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  forever  glide ; 

The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ; 

While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 

We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 

The  elements,  must  vanish  ;  —  be  it  so  ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 

To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour ; 

And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 

Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent  dower, 

We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

XLVI.— INTRODUCTION  TO  ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS. 

1821.  —  1822. 

I,  WHO  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 
Cerulean  Duddon  from  his  cloud-fed  spring, 
And  loved  with  spirit  ruled  by  his  to  sing 
Of  mountain-quiet  and  boon  nature's  grace  ; 
I,  who  essayed  the  nobler  Stream  to  trace 
Of  Liberty,  and  smote  the  plausive  string 
Till  the  checked  torrent,  proudly  triumphing, 
Won  for  herself  a  lasting  resting-place  ; 
Now  seek  upon  the  heights  of  Time  the  source 
Of  a  Holy  River,  on  whose  banks  are  found 
Sweet  pastoral  flowers,  and  laurels  that  have  crowned 
Full  oft  the  unworthy  brow  of  lawless  force  ; 
And,  for  delight  of  him  who  tracks  its  course, 
Immortal  amaranth  and  palms  abound. 
21 


322  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

XLVII.  —  SECLUSION. 
1821.  — 1822. 
Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished,  at  his  side 
A  bead-roll,  in  his  hand  a  clasped  book, 
Or  staff  more  harmless  than  a  shepherd's  crook, 
The  war-worn  Chieftain  quits  the  world  —  to  hide 
His  thin  autumnal  locks  where  Monks  abide 
In  cloistered  privacy.     But  not  to  dwell 
In  soft  repose  he  comes.     Within  his  cell. 
Round  the  decaying  trunk  of  human  pride. 
At  morn,  and  eve,  and  midnight's  silent  hour, 
Do  penitential  cogitations  cling  ; 
Like  ivy,  round  some  ancient  elm,  they  twine 
In  grisly  folds  and  strictures  serpentine ; 
Yet,  while  they  strangle,  a  fair  growth  they  bring. 
For  recompense  —  their  own  perennial  bower. 

XLVIII.  —  MUTABILITY. 
1821.  — 1822. 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 

And  sink  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 

Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail ; 

A  musical  but  melancholy  chime, 

Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime, 

Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not ;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 

The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime. 

That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 

And  is  no  more  ;  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 

Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 

His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 

Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 

Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  323 

XLIX.  — INSIDE  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE. 
1821.  —  1822. 
Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-matched  aims  the  Architect  who  planned  — 
Albeit  laboring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only  —  this  immense 
And  glorious  Work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 
Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  ; 
So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells. 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dweUs 
Lingering,  and  wandering  on  as  loath  to  die  ; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

L.  — CONTINUED. 
1821.  —  1822. 
What  awful  perspective  !  while  from  our  sight 
With  gradual  stealth  the  lateral  windows  hide 
Their  Portraitures,  their  stone-work  glimmers,  dyed 
In  the  soft  checkerings  of  a  sleepy  light. 
Martyr,  or  King,  or  sainted  Eremite, 
Whoe'er  ye  be,  that  thus,  yourselves  unseen. 
Imbue  your  prison-bars  with  solemn  sheen. 
Shine  on,  until  ye  fade  with  coming  Night !  — 
But,  from  the  arms  of  silence  —  list  1  O  list ! 
The  music  bursteth  into  second  life  ; 
The  notes  luxuriate,  every  stone  is  kissed 
By  sound,  or  ghost  of  sound,  in  mazy  strife  ; 
Heart- thrilling  strains,  that  cast,  before  the  eye 
Of  the  devout,  a  veil  of  ecstasy  ! 


\ 

324  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

LI.  — CONCLUDED. 

1821.  —  1822. 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
Who  thus  could  build.     Be  mine,  in  hours  of  fear 
Or  grovelling  thought,  to  seek  a  refuge  here  ; 
Or  through  the  aisles  of  Westminster  to  roam  ; 
Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly's  dancing  foam 
Melts,  if  it  cross  the  threshold  ;  where  the  wreath 
Of  awe-struck  wisdom  droops  :  or  let  my  path 
Lead  to  that  younger  Pile,  whose  sky-like  dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity's  embrace  ;  whose  guardian  crest. 
The  silent  Cross,  among  the  stars  shall  spread 
As  now,  when  She  hath  also  seen  her  breast 
Filled  with  mementos,  satiate  with  its  part 
Of  grateful  England's  overflowing  Dead. 

LIL 

1823.  — 1827. 
Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change. 
Nor  Duty  struggling  with  afllictions  strange  — 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell ; 
But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwell. 
There  also  is  the  Muse  not  loath  to  range. 
Watching  the  twilight  smoke  of  cot  or  grange, 
Skyward  ascending  from  a  woody  dell. 
Meek  aspirations  please  her,  lone  endeavor. 
And  sage  content,  and  placid  melancholy ; 
She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a  crystal  river  — 
Diaphanous  because  it  travels  slowly ; 
Soft  is  the  music  that  would  charm  forever ; 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  325 

LIIL  — TO  ROTHA  Q. 

1827.  — 1827. 

RoTHA,  my  Spiritual  Child  !  this  head  was  grey 

When  at  the  sacred  font  for  thee  I  stood  : 

Pledged  till  thou  reach  the  verge  of  womanhood, 

And  shalt  become  thy  own  sufficient  stay  : 

Too  late,  I  feel,  sweet  Orphan  !  was  the  day 

For  steadfast  hope  the  contract  to  fulfil ; 

Yet  shall  my  blessing  hover  o'er  thee  still, 

Embodied  in  the  music  of  this  Lay, 

Breathed  forth  beside  the  peaceful  mountain  Stream 

Whose  murmur  soothed  thy  languid  Mother's  ear 

After  her  throes,  this  Stream  of  name  more  dear 

Since  thou  dost  bear  it,  —  a  memorial  theme 

For  others  :  for  thy  future  self,  a  spell 

To  summon  fancies  out  of  Time's  dark  cell. 

LIV.  — TO IN   HER   SEVENTIETH  YEAR. 

1827.  — 1827. 

Such  age  how  beautiful !     O  Lady  bright, 

Whose  mortal  lineaments  seem  all  refined 

By  favoring  Nature  and  a  saintly  Mind 

To  something  purer  and  more  exquisite 

Than  flesh  and  blood  ;  where'er  thou  meet'st  my  sight, 

When  I  behold  thy  blanched  unwithered  cheek. 

Thy  temples  fringed  with  locks  of  gleaming  white, 

And  head  that  droops  because  the  soul  is  meek, 

Thee  with  the  welcome  Snowdrop  I  compare ; 

That  child  of  winter,  prompting  thoughts  that  climb 

From  desolation  toward  the  genial  prime ; 

Or  with  the  Moon  conquering  earth's  misty  air, 

And  filling. more  and  more  with  crystal  light 

As  pensive  Evening  deepens  into  night. 


326  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

IN. 

1827.  — 1827. 
Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors  ;  with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrde  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow ;  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land, 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains  —  alas,  too  few  ! 

LVL  — TO  THE  AUTHOR'S   PORTRAIT. 
1830. -1835. 
Go,  faithful  Portrait !  and  where  long  hath  knelt 
Margaret,  the  saintly  Foundress,  take  thy  place ; 
And,  if  Time  spare  the  colors  for  the  grace 
Which  to  the  work  surpassing  skill  hath  dealt, 
Thou,  on  thy  rock  reclined,  though  kingdoms  melt 
And  states  be  torn  up  by  the  roots,  wilt  seem 
To  breathe  in  rural  peace,  to  hear  the  stream, 
And  think  and  feel  as  once  the  Poet  felt. 
Whate'er  thy  fate,  those  features  have  not  grown 
Unrecognized  through  many  a  household  tear 
More  prompt,  more  glad,  to  fall  than  drops  of  dew 
By  morning  shed  around  a  flower  half-blown  ; 
Tears  of  delight,  that  testified  how  true 
To  Hfe  thou  art,  and,  in  thy  truth,  how  dear ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  32'J 

LVIL  — THE  TROSSACHS. 
1831.-1835. 
There  's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 
But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 
Withered  at  Eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 
Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.     Thrice  happy  quest. 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay. 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest. 

LVIII.  — THE   PIBROCH'S   NOTE. 
1831.  — 1835. 

The  pibroch's  note,  discountenanced  or  mute ; 

The  Roman  kilt,  degraded  to  a  toy 

Of  quaint  apparel  for  a  half-spoilt  boy  ; 

The  target  mouldering  like  ungathered  fruit ; 

The  smoking  steam-boat  eager  in  pursuit. 

As  eagerly  pursued ;  the  umbrella  spread 

To  weather-fend  the  Celtic  herdsman's  head  — 

All  speak  of  manners  withering  to  the  root. 

And  of  old  honors,  too,,  and  passions  high  : 

Then  may  we  ask,  though  pleased  that  thought  should  range 

Among  the  conquests  of  civility. 

Survives  imagination  —  to  the  change 

Superior?     Help  to  virtue  does  she  give? 

If  not,  O  •Mortals,  better  cease  to  live  ! 


328  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

LIX.  — HIGHLAND   HUT. 
1831.  — 1835. 
See  what  gay  wild-flowers  deck  this  earth-built  Cot, 
Whose  smoke,  forth-issuing  whence  and  how  it  may, 
Shines  in  the  greeting  of  the  sun's  first  ray 
Like  wreaths  of  vapor  without  stain  or  blot. 
The  limpid  mountain  rill  avoids  it  not ; 
And  why  shouldst  thou  ?  —  If  rightly  trained  and  bred, 
Humanity  is  humble,  finds  no  spot 
Which  her  Heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to  tread. 
The  walls  are  cracked,  sunk  is  the  flowery  roof, 
Undressed  the  pathway  leading  to  the  door ; 
But  love,  as  Nature  loves,  the  lonely  Poor ; 
Search,  for  their  worth,  some  gende  heart  wrong-proof, 
Meek,  patient,  kind,  and,  were  its  trials  fewer, 
Belike  less  happy.  —  Stand  no  more  aloof  1 

LX.  — TO  THE   RIVER  DERWENT. 
1819.  — 1819-35. 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream  ! 

Thou  near  the  eagle's  nest,  —  within  brief  sail, 

I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale, 

Where  thy  deep  voice  could  lull  me  !     Faint  the  beam 

Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 

On  mortal  notice.  —  Glory  of  the  vale. 

Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a  crown,  though  frail, 

Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 

Of  thy  soft  breath  !  —  Less  vivid  wreath  entwined 

Nemaean  victor's  brow  ;  less  bright  was  worn. 

Meed  of  some  Roman  chief — in  triumph  borne 

With  captives  chained ;  and  shedding  from  his  car 

The  sunset  splendors  of  a  finished  war 

Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  329 

LXL  — IN   SIGHT    OF  THE   TOWN   OF  COCKERMOUTH. 
1833.  — 1835. 
A  POINT  of  life  between  my  Parents'  dust, 
And  yours,  my  buried  Little-ones  !  am  I ; 
And  to  those  graves  looking  habitually, 
In  kindred  quiet  I  repose  my  trust. 
Death  to  the  innocent  is  more  than  just, 
And,  to  the  sinner,  mercifully  bent ; 
So  may  I  hope,  if  truly  I  repent 
And  meekly  bear  the  ills  which  bear  I  must : 
And  You,  my  Offspring  !  that  do  still  remain, 
Yet  may  outstrip  me  in  the  appointed  race. 
If  e'er,  through  fault  of  mine,  in  mutual  pain 
We  breathed  together  for  a  moment's  space. 
The  wrong,  by  love  provoked,  let  love  arraign, 
And  only  love  keep  in  your  hearts  a  place. 

LXII.— FROM  THE  SPIRIT  OF  COCKERMOUTH  CASTLK 
1833.— 1835. 

"  Thou  look'st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think, 

Poet !  that,  stricken  as  both  are  by  years, 

We,  differing  once  so  much,  are  now  Compeers, 

Prepared,  when  each  has  stood  his  time,  to  sink 

Into  the  dust.     Erewhile  a  sterner  link 

United  us ;  when  thou,  in  boyish  play, 

Entering  my  dungeon,  didst  become  a  prey 

To  soul-appalling  darkness.     Not  a  blink 

Of  light  was  there ;  and  thus  did  I,  thy  Tutor, 

Make  thy  young  thoughts  acquainted  with  the  grave  \ 

While  thou  wert  chasing  the  winged  butterfly 

Through  my  green  courts ;  or  climbing,  a  bold  suitor, 

Up  to  the  flowers  whose  golden  progeny 

Still  round  my. shattered  brow  in  beauty  wave." 


33^  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH. 

LXIIL  — MARY  QUEEN   OF   SCOTS. 
1833.- 1835. 
Dear  to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed, 
The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  she  wore ; 
And  to  the  throng,  that  on  the  Cumbrian  shore 
Her  landing  hailed,  how  touchingly  she  bowed  ! 
And  like  a  Star  (that,  from  a  heavy  cloud 
Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in  air,  forth  darts, 
When  a  soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 
The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 
She  smiled  ;  but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian  seer, 
Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the  strand, 
With  step  preclusive  to  a  long  array 
Of  woes  and  degradations  hand  in  hand  — 
Weeping  captivity,  and  shuddering  fear 
Stilled  by  the  ensanguined  block  of  Fotheringay  ! 

LXIV. 
1833- -1835. 
"  There  !  "  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealed, 
"  Is  Mosgiel  Farm  ;  and  that 's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy."     Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose ; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  "  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone  " 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away ;  less  happy  than  the  One 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  33 1 

LXV. 

1833. -1835. 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  hes 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  : 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

LXVI.  — THE  PINE  OF  MONTE  MARIO. 

1837.  — 1842. 

I  SAW  far  oif  the  dark  top  of  a  Pine 
Look  like  a  cloud  —  a  slender  stem  the  tie 
That  bound  it  to  its  native  earth  —  poised  high 
'Mid  evening  hues,  along  the  horizon  line, 
Striving  in  peace  each  other  to  outshine. 
But  when  I  learned  the  Tree  was  living  there. 
Saved  from  the  sordid  axe  by  Beaumont's  care, 
Oh,  what  a  gush  of  tenderness  was  mine  ! 
The  rescued  Pine-tree,  with  its  sky  so  bright 
And  cloud-like  beauty,  rich  in  thoughts  of  home, 
Death-parted  friends,  and  days  too  swift  in  flight, 
Supplanted  the  whole  majesty  of  Rome 
(Then  first  apparent  from  the  Pincian  Height) 
Crowned  with  St.  Peter's  everlasting  Dome. 


332  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

LXVII.  —  COMPOSED   ON  A   MAY   MORNING. 

1838.  — 1838. 

Life  with  yon  Lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun, 
Yet  Nature  seems  to  them  a  heavenly  guide. 
Does  joy  approach?  they  meet  the  coming  tide  ; 
And  sullenness  avoid,  as  now  they  shun 
Pale  twilight's  lingering  glooms,  —  and  in  the  sun 
Couch  near  their  dams,  with  quiet  satisfied  ; 
Or  gambol,  —  each  with  his  shadow  at  his  side, 
Varying  its  shape  wherever  he  may  run. 
As  they  from  turf  yet  hoar  with  sleepy  dew 
All  turn,  and  court  the  shining  and  the  green, 
Where  herbs  look  up,  and  opening  flowers  are  seen ; 
Why  to  God's  goodness  cannot  We  be  true  ? 
And  so,  His  gifts  and  promises  between, 
Feed  to  the  last  on  pleasures  ever  new  ? 

LXVIIL 
1838. —  1838. 
Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will 
Leaves  him  at  ease  among  grand  thoughts  :  whose  eye 
Sees  that,  apart  from  magnanimity. 
Wisdom  exists  not ;  nor  the  humbler  skill 
Of  Prudence,  disentangling  good  and  ill 
With  patient  care.     What  tho'  assaults  run  high, 
They  daunt  not  him  who  holds  his  ministry, 
Resolute,  at  all  hazards,  to  fulfil 
Its  duties ;  prompt  to  move,  but  firm  to  wait ; 
Knowing,  things  rashly  sought  are  rarely  found ; 
That,  for  the  functions  of  an  ancient  State  — 
Strong  by  her  charters,  free  because  imbound, 
Servant  of  Providence,  not  slave  of  Fate  — 
Perilous  is  sweeping  change,  all  chance  unsound. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH.  333 

LXIX.  — TO  A  PAINTER. 
1 841.  —  1842. 
All  praise  the  Likeness  by  thy  skill  portrayed ; 
But  't  is  a  fruitless  task  to  paint  for  me, 
Who,  yielding  not  to  changes  Time  has  made, 
By  the  habitual  light  of  memory  see 
Eyes  unbedimmed,  see  bloom  that  cannot  fade, 
And  smiles  that  from  their  birthplace  ne'er  shall  flee 
Into  the  land  where  ghosts  and  phantoms  be  \ 
And,  seeing  this,  own  nothing  in  its  stead. 
Could'st  thou  go  back  into  far-distant  years, 
Or  share  with  me,  fond  thought !  that  inward  eye, 
Then,  and  then  only.  Painter  !  could  thy  Art 
The  visual  powers  of  Nature  satisfy. 
Which  hold,  whate'er  to  common  sight  appears, 
Their  sovereign  empire  in  a  faithful  heart. 

LXX.  — TO  THE  SAME. 
1 841. —  1842. 
Though  I  beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise 
This  Work,  I  now  have  gazed  on  it  so  long 
I  see  its  truth  with  unreluctant  eyes ; 
O,  my  Beloved  !     I  have  done  thee  wrong, 
Conscious  of  blessedness,  but,  whence  it  sprung 
Ever  too  heedless,  as  I  now  perceive  : 
Morn  into  noon  did  pass,  noon  into  eve, 
And  the  old  day  was  welcome  as  the  young, 
As  welcome,  and  as  beautiful,  —  in  sooth 
More  beautiful,  as  being  a  thing  more  holy  : 
Thanks  to  thy  virtues,  to  the  eternal  youth 
Of  all  thy  goodness,  never  melancholy ; 
To  thy  large  heart  and  humble  mind,  that  cast 
Into  one  vision,  future,  present,  past. 


334  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

LXXI. 

1842.  — 1842. 

A  Poet  !  —  He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 

Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 

Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand  ;  must  laugh 

By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule.     ■ 

Thy  Art  be  Nature ;  the  live  current  quaff, 

And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 

In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and  cool 

Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 

How  does  the  Meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold  ? 

Because  the  lovely  httle  flower  is  free 

Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom,  bold ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  Forest-tree 

Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 

But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


i>^ 


NOTES. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  AND   ITINERARY. 


1770 
1778 
1787 
1790 
1791 
1792 
1793 
1794 
1795 
1797 

1798 
1799 

1802 
1803 
1805 
1808 
1811 
1813 
1814 
1820 
1 83 1 

1833 
1837 

1839 
1842 
1850 


Birth. 

At  Hawkshead  School. 

At  Cambridge. 

Vacation  Tour  through  France,  Switzerland,  and  Italy. 

Graduation  ;  visits  London,  Wales,  and  France. 

Return  to  London. 

At  Isle  of  Wight. 

At  Penrith,  with  Calvert. 

Settles  at  Racedown. 

Removes  to  Alfoxden. 

Visits  Germany  (Goslar). 

Leaves  Goslar  ;  begins  Prelude  ;  settles  at  Dove  Cottage, 

Town-End,  Grasmere. 
Marriage. 
Tour  in  Scotland. 
Death  of  John  Wordsworth. 

Removes  to  Allan  Bank,  Grasmere;    The  Excursion, 
Removes  to  the  Parsonage,  Grasmere. 
Removes  to  Rydal  Mount. 
Second  Visit  to  Scotland. 
Visits  the  Continent. 
Visits  Abbotsford. 
Last  Visit  to  Scotland. 
Italian  Tour. 
Oxford  Degree. 
Poet  Laureate. 
Death. 


NOTES. 


1785-1797. 

Extract  from  the  Conclusion  of  a  Poem. 

Written  at  Hawkshead  during  Wordsworth's  school-days.  The  im- 
age with  which  the  poem  concludes  suggested  itself  to  the  Poet  while 
he  was  resting  in  a  boat  on  Coniston  Lake  under  the  shadow  of  the 
sycamores  which  stood  on  the  promontory  near  Coniston  Hall. 

"  The  first  verses  I  wrote  were  a  task  imposed  by  my  master.  I 
was  called  upon  to  write  verses  upon  the  completion  of  the  second 
centenary  of  the  school  (1785).  These  were  much  admired  —  far 
more  than  they  deserved  —  for  they  were  but  a  tame  imitation  of 
Pope's  versification,  and  a  little  in  his  style."    Cf.  Prelude^  v.  553-577. , 

The  Poet  was  thy  nursling;  here  he  drank 
His  first  boy  thoughts  of  Nature  and  her  will : 
How  often  fresh  from  school  he  clomb  this  hill, 
And  stretched  in  sun  upon  the  heathy  bank, 
Endowed  with  life  the  mountains,  rank  on  rank, 
Or,  in  the  time  of  earliest  daffodil, 
Watched  April  storm  the  valley  fill. 

From  Sonnet  on  Hawkshead  by  H.  D.  Rawnsley. 

Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree. 

Written  in  part  as  a  school  exercise  at  Hawkshead.  — W.  W. 

Wordsworth  and  his  sister  began  house-keeping  at  Racedown  Lodge, 
near  Crewkerne,  Dorsetshire,  in  the  autumn  of  1795.  Coleridge,  then 
living  at  Nether  Stowey  in  Somersetshire,  first  met  Wordsworth  at 
Racedown  in  June,  1797.  The  pleasure  of  this  meeting  and  succeeding 
ones  made  the  poets  desirous  of  being  nearer  each  other ;  and  in  July 
the  Wordsworths  removed  to  Alfoxden,  within  a  few  miles  of  Nether 
Stowey.  Here  was  formed  the  idea  of  a  joint  literary  production, 
which  gave  us  the  Ancient  Marinh-e  and  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  See 
Prelude,  Prefatory  Note,  and  xiv.  3S8-407. 

22 


33S        *.  NOTES  TO  PAGES  2-4. 


Alfoxden  was  a  large  mansion,  beautifully  located  on  a  slope  of 
the  Quantock  Hills,  in  sight  of  Bristol  Channel.  Woods  of  old  oaks 
and  large  hollies,  with  abundant  fern  and  foxglove,  stretch  in  every 
direction,  broken  here  and  there  by  pleasant  downs  and  valleys 
through  which  the  brooks  run  singing  to  the  sea.  Dorothy  wrote : 
"  The  deer  dwell  here,  and  the  sheep,  so  that  we  have  a  lively  pros- 
pect ;  walks  extend  for  miles  over  the  hill-tops."  This  was  the  Poet's 
spring-time  of  energy  and  imaginative  insight. 

I.  The  yew-tree  stood  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  *lake  about  ten 
minutes'  walk  from  Hawkshead.  At  the  present  time  a  yew-tree  mis- 
named "  Wordsworth's  yew  "  stands  near  the  spot. 

12^  The  individual  spoken  of  was  educated  at  tl^  University  and 
•was  a  man  of  talent  and  learning.  —  W.  W. 

31,  32.  Wordsworth  never  finds  the  gloom  of  Nature  a  reflection  of 
his  own.     She  is  never  to  him,  — 

"Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief." 
She  exerts  herself  to  cure  the  chronic  disease  of  egotism,  despond- 
ency, and  misanthropy.     Cf.  TinUrtt  Abbey  and  Prelude,  xii.  88-151. 

50-64.  Wordsworth's  sympathy  for  men  was  so  deep  and  sincere 
that  while  he  had  an  uncompromising  hatred  of  evil,  he  did  not  extend 
the  hatred  to  the  doer  of  evil ;  he  could  see  the  "  soul  of  goodness 
m  all  things,"  and  thus  distinguish  between  weakness  and  wickedness. 
The  moral  teaching  of  this  poem  would  seem  to  be  the  voice  of 
age,  and  yet  the  Poet  was  but  twenty-five  at  this  time.  Aubrey  De 
Vere  says  that  the  passion  of  the  poem  is  not  personal,  but  intel- 
lectual and  imaginative,  and  thence  derives  its  power  to  arouse  emo- 
tion ;  the  moral  was  not  thought  out  beforehand,  but  was  produced 
by  the  quickening  of  thought  during  composition.  In  few  poets  do 
we  find  such  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  feeling  united  with  such 
strength  and  independence. 

For  an  exceedingly  interesting  account  of  the  Alfoxden  and  Stowey 
days,  see  Mrs.  Sandf  ord's  Thomas  Poole  and  His  Friends. 

1798. 

We  are  Seven. 

Composed  while  walking  in  the  grove  at  Alfoxden  in  the  spring 
of  1798.  Five  years  before,  Wordsworth  had  met  the  little  girl  in 
the  area  of  Goodrich  Castle.  When  the  poem  was  completed,  with 
the  exception  of  the  introductory  stanza,  and  the  fact  mentioned  to 
Coleridge,  he  immediately  threw  off, — 

*'  A  simple  child,  dear  brother  Jem,^^ 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  4-1 1.  339 

iind  this  verse  stood  at  the  head  of  the  poem  until  181 5.  Popular  as 
this  little  poem  has  become  in  virtue  of  its  un withering  beauty,  it  can- 
not be  fully  appreciated  until  it  is  placed  in  its  proper  relation  to 
the  great  Ode. 

Wherever  Wordsworth  deals  with  the  subject  of  Death  it  is  with  ' 
calmness  and  childlike  simplicity.  Wisely  does  he  rest  the  solution 
of  the  great  question  of  Immortality,  not  upon  the  dicta  of  the  wise 
and  prudent,  but  upon  the  heaven-taught  wisdom  of  the  child,  before 
its  ideas  are  corrupted  by  the  senses,  and  the  "trailing  clouds  of 
j  glory "  disappear.  The  necessity  of__^ possessing  the,  child-spirit,  in 
order  to  enter  the  kingdom  of.  troth  lies  at  the  root  of  Wordsworth's 
philosophy,  while  its  revelations  const^utejor  hiin  the  Intijnations 
of  Imniortality.  In  this  ballad  we  have,  in  the  simplest  language, 
tEe  "  contemplative  contrast "  between  the  buoyant  health,  the  joy- 
ous beauty  of  the  child-life,  and  what  we  call  Death ;  this  contrast 
is  maintained  by  that  form  of  art  the  perfection  of  which  is  self- 
concealment. 

Simon  Lee. 

The  incident  which  suggested  this  poem  occurred  at  Alfoxden;  the 
old  man  had  been  huntsman  to  the  squires  of  Alfoxden.  —  W.  W. 

24.  The  expression,  "  I  dearly  love  their  voice,"  was  word  for  word 
from  the  old  man's  lips.  —  W.  W. 

Wordsworth's  lack  of  dramatic  power  has  often  been  insisted  upon, 
and  not  without  reason,  for  he  frequently  fails  when  dealing  with  a 
variety  of  incidents ;  hence  he  uses  for  the  most  part  the  simplest 
/narratives,  as  in  this  poem,  and  treats  them  "with  a  plain,  first- 
hand, almost  austere  naturalness."  This  peculiarity  is  eminently  char- 
acteristic of  him,  whether  he  is  dealing  with  landscape  or  anecdote. 

65,66.  The  result  of  such  "silent  thpught"  is  to  stimulate  our 
sympathy  so  that  it  may  be  called  forth  by  every  common  incident 
of  ])leasure  or  of  pain,  and  thus  build  up  our  moral  being. 

93-96.   In  this  power  of  opening  up  rich  veins  of  feeling  by  the 
simplest  incident,  Wordsworth  is  unsurpassed.     This  is  what  Matthew       / 
Arnold  means  when  he  says :   "  The  greatness  of  Wordsworth  lies  in  ] 

his  powerful  and  beautiful  application  of  ideas  to  life."  ^ 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring. 

A  chosen  resort  of  the  two  poets  and  Dorothy,  while  at  Alfoxden, 
was  a  grove,  and  a  pool  made  by  a  brook  which  ran  down  from  the 
Comb. 


340  NOTES   TO  PAGES  11-14. 

8.  Cf.  Prelude,  xi.  206-209. 

9,  10.  Across  the  pool  a  tree  had  fallen ;  and  the  leaves,  for  want  of 
sun-light,  were  almost  white,  while  from  this  sylvan  bridge  depended 
beautiful  tresses  of  ivy.  —  W.  W.  ,„^^ 

13-24.  Wordsworth  has  shown  us  in  the  Prelude  the  steps  by  ^ 
which  he  rose  to  the  idea  of  Divine  Life  in  Nature.  While  viewing 
Nature  as  a  personality,  having  thoughts,  plans,  emotions,  and  pleas- 
ures, he  avoids  the  extreme  of  idealism,  for  he  never  robs  Nature  of 
her  qualities  by  making  them  depend  upon  the  thought  of  man  ;  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  does  he  give  aid  to  the  materialist  by  making  man 
a  creature  of  necessity.  This  view  of  Nature,  as  ever  expressing  the 
joy  and  pleasure  of  God  in  his  own  work,  fills  his  poetry  with  sweet- 
ness and  light,  and  gives  it  the  power  to  heal  and  cleanse. 

It  was  through  this  little  poem  that  Wordsworth  won  the  love  and 
admiration  of  the  late  Dr.  Hudson. 

To  My  Sister. 

Composed  in  front  of  the  house  at  Alfoxden,  where,  between  two 
large  elms  overlooking  the  park  and  the  sea,  the  Poet  used  to  read 
and  compose. 

9-16.  This  picture  of  happy  rural  life  does  one  good.  The  Poet, 
sauntering  on  the  lawn  while  the  "  gladsome  choristers  "  are  singing, 
is  thrilled  with  the  life  and  the  joy  of  Nature,  but  cannot  enjoy  it  to 
the  full  except  the  Sister  be  sharer,  and  so  he  sends  her  these  lines  ere 
her  morning  task  be  done. 

Of  the  relation  of  Wordsworth  to  his  sister  much  will  be  said  in 
connection  with  the  poems  descriptive  of  her. 

The  following  is  from  Mr,  E.  Paxton  Hood :  "  Not  Laura  with 
Petrarch,  nor  Beatrice  with  Dante,  nor  the  fair  Geraldine  with  Sur- 
rey, are  more  really  connected  than  is  Wordsworth  with  his  sister 
Dorothy." 

25-28.  Nature  refuses  to  reveal  her  secrets  to  those  who  "  pore  and 
dwindle  as  they  pore,"  lacking  the  spirit  of  reverence.  To  those  who 
approach  her  in  the  spirit  of  humility  she  reveals  her  beauty  and  her 
majesty  ;  of  all  our  seeing  this  is  the  Master  Light. 

It  seems  the  duty  of  the  naturalist  to  be  a  poet  in  his  severest 
analysis    to  make  the  naturalist  subordinate  to  the  man.  —  Emerson. 

Expostulation  and  Reply. 
This  poem  and  the  following  were  composed  in  front  of  the  house 
at  Alfoxden. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  14-17.  341 

15.  The  "Matthew "of  this  poem  and  other  poems  was  William 
Taylor,  Wordsworth's  schoolmaster  at  Hawkshead, 

21-32.  Wordsworth,  when  making  "  rigorous  inquisition  "  to  ascer- 
tain his  qualifications  for  a  poet,  found  that  he  possessed  the  first 
great  gift,  a  vital  soul:  this  he  can  develop  in  us  so  that  by  it  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  senses  and  the  intellect  will  be  transmuted  into  moral 
and  spiritual  power.  In  the  periods  of  "  wise  passiveness,"  those 
thoughts  and  emotions  which  in  our  busy  hours  have  almost  escaped 
from  our  consciousness,  are  collected,  brought  home,  and  become 
truths  which  perish  never. 

To  a  mind  fretted  with  analysis  and  a  heart  breaking  against  the 
hard  problems  of  existence,  this  "divine  philosophy"  comes  with 
healing  power. 

The  Tables  Turned. 

21-28.  The  Poet  does  not  here  teach  a  life  of  emotion  rather  than  a 
life  of  action,  but  he  insists  upon  a  truth  which  all  moral  teachers 
inculcate, —  that  the  mind  requires  periods  of  repose  in  which  to 
gather  up  the  crumbs  of  thought  which  otherwise  in  the  whirl  of  our 
life  would  be  lost. 

Though  his  poetry  reads  so  transcendental,  and  is  so  meditative, 
there  never  was  a  poet  so  little  of  a  dreamer  as  Wordsworth.  — 

HUTTON. 

28-32.  If  a  narrow  interpretation  finds  here  a  hatred  of  science,  it  is 
of  that  form  of  science  which  insists  that  the  intellect  is  the  only  organ 
of  truth :  the  Poet  has  no  words  of  condemnation  for  that  larger 
science  represented  by  Newton,  Faraday,  and  Agassiz, — a  science 
which  recognized  the  truths  of  the  imagination  as  well  as  those  of 
experiment.  He  everywhere  condemns  the  tendency  to  consider 
animal  comforts  the  end  of  being. 

Mr.  Myers  says  :  "  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  if  these  two 
poems,  to  the  careless  eye  so  slight  and  trifling,  were  all  that  had  re- 
mained from  Wordsworth's  hand,  they  would  have  '  spoken  to  the 
comprehending '  of  a  new  individuality  as  distinct  and  unmistakable 
in  its  way  as  that  which  Sappho  has  left  engraven  on  the  world  for- 
ever in  words  even  fewer  than  these." 

Tintern  Abbey. 

No  poem  of  mine  was  composed  under  circumstances  more  pleasant 
for  me  to  remember  than  this.  I  began  it  upon  leaving  Tintern  after 
crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  as  I  was  entering  Bristol  dur- 
ing the  evening,  after  a  ramble  of  four  or  five  days  with  my  sister. 


342  NOTES  TO  PAGES  17-22. 

Not  a  line  of  it  was  altered,  and  not  any  part  of  it  written  down  till 
I  reached  Bristol.— Lyrical  Ballads. 

This  was  the  last  poem  of  that  remarkable  volume  of  1798. 

22-65.  That  spiritualization  of  Nature  which  was  noticed  in  the 
former  poems  is  here  carried  to  its  highest  point  of  sublimity.  In  the 
Poet's  idea  of  human  life  those  instincts,  impulses,  and  emotions  of 
youth  —  those  momentary  visions  —  have  a  divine  origin;  he  teaches 
that  the  mature  reason,  instead  of  treating  these  as  illusions,  should 
regulate  and  cherish  them  as  means  of  ennobling  the  character.  The 
poetry  of  our  advancing  years  will  be  derived  from  these  "  emotions 
recollected  in  tranquillity," 

65-110.  The  three  periods  in  the  Poet's  experience  up  to  this  time 
were  — 

(i)  When  the  love  of  Nature  was  supreme.  (2)  When  the  love  of 
Nature  was  secondary  to  the  love  of  Man.  (3)  When  the  marriage 
of  Man  and  Nature  had  taken  place  through  the  strength  of  spiritual 
vision. 

Cf.  Prelude,  ii.  419-451 ;  ix.  501-552;  xi.  321-369.  These  "au- 
thentic tidings  of  invisible  things  "  which  fortify  us  to  do  or  to  endure 
can  be  perceived  only  by  spiritual  contemplation. 

111-159.  The  tribute  which  the  Poet  paid  to  his  sister  is  the  highest 
which  one  soul  can  pay  to  another :  he  was  never  weary  of  singing 
her  praise,  nor  was  she  ever  tired  of  trying  to  make  herself  worthy  of 
his  praise.  Endowed  with  faculties  capable  of  gaining  distinction  in 
the  same  sphere  of  work,  she  nevertheless  chose  to  let  him  sing  of 
what  she  felt  and  saw.  To  those  familiar  with  the  close  of  her  life 
these  words  seem  prophetic ;  for  she  lingered  a  few  years  after  her 
brother's  death,  and  her  chief  solace  seemed  to  be  the  remembrance 
of  days  passed  in  his  companionship.  More  has  been  written  of  this 
poem  than  of  any  other  of  his  unless  it  be  the  "  Platonic  Ode." 

It  is  the  seed-thought  of  all  the  poetry  of  the  first  half  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  —  E.  P.  Whipple. 

The  soul  of  the  poet  here  comes  in  contact  with  Him  who  is  the 
author  and  upholder  of  Nature  and  of  man. —  Prof.  Shairp. 

His  imagination  was  of  too  spiritual  an  order  to  shape  itself  into 
material  divinities,  and  his  conscience  bore  witness  to  a  Personal  God, 
the  Creator  of  all  things.  .  .  .  Had  he  lost  his  hold  of  Religion  he 
would  have  lost  Nature  also,  —  for  to  him  she  would  have  been  Na- 
ture no  longer.  —  De  Vere. 

This  poem  has  become  the  locus  classicus,  or  consecrated  formulary 
of  Wordsworthian  faith.  —  Myers. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  22-28.  343 

To  those  who  are  strangers  to  this  state  of  impassioned  contempla- 
tion, Wordsworth's  poetry,  or  all  that  is  highest  in  it,  is  a  sealed 

book.  —  DOVVDEN. 

Cf.  Bryant's  Thatiatopsis. 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar. 

Observed,  and  with  great  benefit  to  my  own  heart,  when  I  was  a 
child.  Written  at  Racedown  and  Alfoxden.  The  Political  Econo- 
mists were  about  that  time  beginning  their  war  upon  mendicity  in 
all  its  forms,  and  by  implication,  if  not  directly,  upon  alms-giving 
also.— W.  W. 

The  "  Growth  of  a  Poet's  Mind  "  as  Wordsworth  has  revealed  it  to 
us  in  the  Prelude  shows  the  means  which  Nature  used  to  educate  him 
into  the  poet  of   humanity.     Humble  men  and  women,  the  village 
dames,  the  thrifty  dalesmen,  and  the  hardy  shepherds  — 
"  Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song,  of  these 
Will  1  record  the  praises, 
That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance  paid 
Where  it  is  due." 

For  this  work  his  early  associations  and  the  inspiration  of  the 
great  Peasant  Poet  of  Scotland  had  predisposed  him. 

In  order  to  see  what  a  giant  stride  these  poems  took  in  advance  of 
the  age,  we  need  to  compare  them  with  the  poems  which  preceded. 
Of  man  as  found  in  the  abodes  of  wealth  and  refinement,  preceding 
poetry  had  been  mindful ;  and  Wordsworth  was  too  broad  not  to  rec- 
ognize that  from  hence  had  proceeded  much  that  was  pure  and  un- 
worldly, yet  he  believed  that  rich  veins  of  poetic  feeling  lay  hidden  in 
the  lives  of  homely  men  and  women.  This  was,  as  Robertson  says,  a 
"  high  and  holy  work,"  and  for  it  both  the  rich  and  the  poor  praise  him. 

1-66.  Plain  imagination  and  severe  could  hardly  produce  a  more 
distinct  picture  of  one  who,  to  the  eye  of  the  economist,  had  outlived 
all  usefulness. 

His  is  the  poetry  of  intellect  and  of  feeling  —  of  humanity  in  the  ab- 
stract chiefly  ;  and  yet  what  is  more  human  than  The  Old  Cumberland 
Beggar?  —  Author  of  "  Rab  and  His  Friends." 

67-87.    See  notes  on  Lines  Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew- Tree. 

87-170.  While  the  apparent  usefulness  of  the  old  man  has  ceased, 
the  Poet,  by  his  penetrative  insight,  reaches  essential  elements  and 
recognizes  a  sphere  of  passive  usefulness.  Those  who  are  unable  to 
enter  into  any  of  the  more  elaborate  schemes  of  philanthropy  find 
here  a  field  for  the  exercise  of  that  form  of  charity  which  sounds  no 


344  NOTES  TO  PAGES  28-30. 

trumpet  before  it ;  here  the  poor  dame  learns  that  "  it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive,"  and  that  unselfishness  dignifies  life.  It  is  in 
such  lessons  as  this  that  the  manifold  wisdom  and  truth  ofWords- 
worth's  poetry  consists,  —  a  wisdom  not  of  demonstration  and  the 
schools,  but  of  those  "sweet  counsels  of  head  and  heart." 

Wordsworth's  genius  did  not  grasp  many  things,  but  it  grasped 
much  ;  like  one  of  his  own  bees,  he  can  murmur  by  the  hour  in  fox- 
glove bells.  —  R.  H.  HuTTON. 

Aubrey  de  Vere  has  done  the  student  of  Wordsworth  signal  service 
in  showing  that  he  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  Passion,  and  in  refer- 
ence to  the  exhibition  of  it  in  this  poem  he  says  :  "  Before  a  poet  can 
afford  such  sympathy  as  this  ...  he  requires  to  possess  not  only  a 
happy  temperament  but  a  strong  one.  The  weak  sympathize  but 
with  the  weak,  and  weaken  them  more  by  such  sympathy.  .  .  . 
Wordsworth's  poetry  delights  to  graft  the  softer  virtues  on  the  hard- 
ier stock." 

In  the  treatment  of  characters  like  "  The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar  " 
Wordsworth's  art  resembles  that  of  Turner :  the  central  idea  in  the 
work  of  each  is  its  healing  power,  while  their  plainness  of  style  is  due 
to  contempt  for  artifice. 

Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay. 
If  I  recollect  right  these  verses  were  an  overflow  from  The  Old 
Cumberland  Beggar.  —  W.  W. 

1799. 

Having  completed  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  which  secured  for  them  the 
necessary  funds,  the  three  friends,  in  September,  1798,  set  out  for  Ger- 
many with  the  intention  of  studying  the  language.  At  Hamburg  they 
met  the  aged  Klopstock,  —  the  "German  Milton,"  —  and  here  Cole- 
ridge left  them  and  passed  on  to  Gottingen,  where  he  studied  metaphys- 
ics. Wordsworth  and  his  sister  settled  for  the  winter  at  Goslar,  an  old 
imperial  town  in  Hanover,  and  it  was  here  that  the  following  poems 
were  written.  They  show  that  although  the  Poet  was  in  a  strange 
land  his  heart  was  with  the  scenes  of  his  youth.  Of  the  poems  writ- 
ten in  Germany  Wordsworth  says  :  — 

"  A  bitter  winter  it  was  when  these  verses  were  composed  by  the 
side  of  my  sister  in  our  lodgings,  at  a  draper's  house,  in  the  romantic 
imperial  town  of  Goslar,  on  the  edge  of  the  Hartz  forest.  .  .  .  With 
the  protection  of  a  pelisse  lined  with  fur  and  a  dogskin  bonnet  such 
as  was  worn  by  the  peasants,  I  walked  daily  on  the  ramparts." 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  30-32.  345 

Nutting. 

Written  in  Germany;  intended  as  a  part  of  a  poem  on  my  own 
life,  but  struck  out  as  not  being  wanted  there.  Like  most  of  my 
school-fellows  I  was  an  impassioned  nutter.  For  this  pleasure  the 
vale  of  Esthwaite,  abounding  in  coppice  wood,  furnished  a  very  wide 
range.  These  verses  arose  out  of  the  remembrance  of  feelings  I  had 
often  had  when  a  boy.  —  W.  W,     See  Prelude,  i.  301-339. 

In  but  few  instances  does  Wordsworth  deal  with  Nature  alone ;  as 
a  rule  Nature  is  but  the  setting  for  the  subject  Man,  and  has  its  sig- 
nificance in  relation  to  him.  In  this  poem,  so  largely  descriptive,  we 
have  an  illustration  of  the  subtle  connection  of  Nature  with  the  mind 
of  man,  —  a  connection  which  is  not  easy  for  some  minds  to  grasp ; 
by  them  the  attitude  of  mind  in  which  we  here  see  the  Poet  is 
brusquely  labelled  Pantheism.  Yet  Wisdom  is  justified  of  her  chil- 
dren, and  every  work  of  art,  in  so  far  as  it  is  appreciated  by  us,  must 
appeal  to  the  artist  in  us. 

This  form  of  impassioned  imagination  views  Nature  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  the  life  of  God,  and  is  unlike  any  which  had  before  appeared  in 
poetry.  The  classic  or  ideal  imagination  which  we  find  in  the  Greeks 
and  in  the  poetry  which  followed,  viewed  Nature  under  the  aspect  of 
several  wills  working  through  Nymphs,  Dryads,  and  Satyrs  ;  to  recog- 
nize to  what  an  extent  these  ideas  governed  English  poetry  we  have 
but  to  consult  any  characteristic  poems  of  Pope,  Dryden,  Shelley,  or 
Keats.  Wordsworth  expunged  all  these  stock  words  from  his  poeti- 
cal vocabulary ;  and  although  he  was  at  times  too  stern  in  his  realism, 
and  needlessly  incurred  the  anathemas  of  the  critics,  yet  here  natural 
good  taste  and  sense  prevailed  over  the  foibles  of  false  aestheticism. 
In  this  method  of  viewing  Nature  the  Poet  makes  common  cause  with 
modern  science,  which  teaches  that  all  the  forms  of  force  are  varieties 
of  one  primal  force ;  and  if  it  does  not  affirm  personality  of  this,  yet  it 
does  not  deny  it. 

"  Strange  Fits  of  Passion  Have  I  Known." 
It  is  fortunate  for  us  that  Wordsworth  was  not  absorbed  in  German 
philosophy,  else  we  never  would  have  possessed  these  exquisite 
poems  on  Lucy,  —  pearls  gathered  upon  a  golden  thread.  Five  short 
poems  are  all  we  have  of  her  whom  we  know  not,  save  as  she  is  here 
enshrined  with  an  "  artlessness  which  only  art  can  know."  In  these 
poems  the  artist  has  risen  to  the  highest  and  completest  realization 
of  that  creed  in  which  is  written,  — 

"  Thy  art  be  nature." 


346  NOTES   TO  PAGES  32-39. 

To  analyze  such  poems  as  these  is  almost  a  sin  ;  as  well  might  one 
attempt  to  ascertain  by  the  microscope  the  source  of  beauty  in  the 
flower. 

They  are  genuine  love-poems,  and  yet  how  far  removed  from  that 
species  of  love-poetry  which  encourages  vulgar  curiosity,  or  the  pa- 
rade of  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  the  heart.  All  that  is  given  us  is 
that  Lucy  once  lived,  is  now  no  more. 

The  pathos  in  this  record  of  anxious  foreboding,  profound  sorrow, 
and  calm  despair,  is  holy.  Of  it  Mrs.  Oliphant  says :  "  Never  were 
words  more  simple,  more  every-day ;  and  yet  it  is  hard  to  read  them 
without  tears ;  impossible  if  the  reader's  life  has  ever  held  a  Lucy  of 
its  own."  Many  have  wondered  why  one  who  could  write  such  love- 
poems  as  these  wrote  so  few.  Aubrey  de  Vere  says  :  "  This  question 
was  once  put  to  the  Poet  by  myself;  and  a  part  of  the  reply  was  this, 
— '  Had  I  been  a  writer  of  love-poetry  it  would  have  been  natural  to 
me  to  write  it  with  a  degree  of  warmth  which  could  hardly  have  been 
approved  by  my  principles.'  "  In  his  stanzas  The  Poet  and  the  Caged 
Turtle  Dove  we  find  this  additional  answer,  — 

"  Love,  blessed  love,  is  everywhere 
The  SPIRIT  of  my  song." 

A  Poet's  Epitaph. 

During  these  walks  (about  Goslar)  I  composed  the  poem  that 
follows.  — W.  W. 

37-56.  In  this  portrait  of  Wordsworth's  ideal  poet  we  find  clearly 
marked  those  characteristics  which  he  himself  possessed,  and  which 
rendered  it  impossible  for  the  world  to  listen  to  him  until  it  had 
learned  that  the  sphere  of  poetry  was  not  limited  to  the  extraordinary 
in  the  life  of  man  and  Nature. 

In  the  use  of  Wordsworth  as  a  text-book  in  school  we  find  that  his 
poetry  makes  no  sudden  conquests,  — it  is  too  homely  in  its  nature  for 
that ;  it  is  only  as  the  pupil  comes  to  love  it,  that  it  seems  worthy  of 
his  love.  Again,  its  deepest  truths  do  not  reach  the  pupil  by  being 
made  the  subject  of  recitation,  but  in  that  afterthought  which  every 
exercise  with  poetry  ought  to  produce.  The  highest  lesson  of  his 
poetry  is  learned  when  we  find  that  enjoyment  is  not  a  product  of  the 
understanding,  but  that  the  truest  understanding  comes  from  enjoy- 
ment, —  from  sympathy. 

F.  W.  Robertson  says:  "And  here  lies  the  great  difficulty  of  our 
age;  that  it  is  an  age  of  cant  without  love,  of  criticism  without  re- 
verence. .  .  .  What  we  want  is  the  old  spirit  of  our  forefathers ;  the 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  39-52.  347 

firm  conviction  that  not  by  criticism,  but  by  sympathy,  we  must  under- 
stand; what  we  want  is  more  reverence,  more  love,  more  humanity." 
Cf .  Thomson's  Castle  of  IndolencCy  Canto  ii.  33. 

Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School  of . 

The  school  was  that  of  Hawkshead,  where  the  Poet  spent  nine 
years;  the  "  Friend  and  Father  "  (the  "  Matthew  "  of  the  three  follow- 
ing poems)  was  Rev.  William  Taylor,  the  third  of  the  four  masters  dur- 
ing those  years.  Not  long  before  his  death  he  summoned  ^he  upper 
boys  of  the  school  (Wordsworth  being  one)  and  gave  them  his  part- 
ing blessing.  He  was  buried  in  Cartmell  church-yard.  See  Prelude^ 
X.  532- 

Matthew. 

Hawkshead  school  was  founded  by  Archbishop  Sandys  in  1585, 
and  is  now  very  much  as  it  was  in  the  Poet's  time.  Cut  in  one  of  the 
oaken  benches  is  the  name,  William  Wordsworth,  which  is  covered 
with  glass  to  protect  it  from  the  vandalism  of  tourists.  A  tablet  on 
the  wall  of  the  room  contains  the  names  of  the  masters. 

The  Two  April  Mornings,  and  The  Fountain. 

The  sketch  given  in  these  four  Matthew  poems  is  worthy  of  a  place 
beside  that  other  of  the  unknown  Lucy.  If  these  are  not  poems 
in  a  style  at  once  unique  and  perfect,  our  language  has  no  such 
poems.  —  Prof.  Shairp. 

Lucy  Gray. 

Written  at  Goslar,  in  Germany,  in  1799.  ^^  ^^.s  founded  on  a  cir- 
cumstance told  me  by  my  sister,  of  a  little  girl  who  not  far  from  Hali- 
fax, in  Yorkshire,  was  bewildered  in  a  snow-storm.  Her  footsteps 
were  tracked  by  her  parents  to  the  middle  of  a  lock  of  a  canal,  and  no 
other  vestige  of  her,  backward  or  forward,  could  be  traced.  —  W.  W. 

1800. 

In  the  spring  of  1799  the  Wordsworths  left  Goslar  and  visited  their 
relatives,  the  Hutchinsons,  at  Sockburn-on-Tees,  County  Durham ; 
there  they  remained  until  autumn.  In  September  Wordsworth,  his 
brother  John,  and  Coleridge  made  an  excursion  through  the  Lake 
District.  They  were  greatly  pleased  with  the  vale  of  Grasmere  and 
the  cottage  at  Town-End  which  bore  the  sign  of  The  Dove  and  Olive 
Bough.     Wordsworth  took  up  his  abode  here  in  December,  1799. 


348  NOTES   TO  PAGES  52-54. 

See  Prelude  i.  1-131.  These  poems  of  1800- 1805  seem  to  have 
been  written  as  recreations  while  the  Poet  was  at  work  upon  the 
Prelude. 

"On  Nature's  Invitation  do  I  Come." 

The  date  of  composition  of  this  and  the  following  poem  is  not 
known,  —  they  are  fragments  from  the  Recluse.  Compare  this  de- 
scription of  the  vale  with  that  of  Gray .  — 

"  Not  a  single  red  tile,  no  flaring  gentleman's  house,  or  garden 
walls  break  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little  unsuspected  paradise  ,  but 
all  is  peace,  rusticity,  and  happy  poverty  in  its  neatest  and  most  be- 
coming attire." 

"  Bleak  Season  was  it,  Turbulent  and  Wild." 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister  left  Sockburn  on  the  19th  of  December, 
1799,  ^"^^  after  a  journey  of  three  days  over  snow  and  ice,  turning 
aside  to  see  the  frozen  waterfalls  and  watch  the  changing  aspect  of 
cloud  and  sunshine,  they  reached  Dove  Cottage  on  the  21st.  During 
the  years  of  residence  here,  by  dint  of  "  plain  living  and  high  think- 
ing," was  produced  that  poetry  which  placed  Wordsworth  among  the 
Immortals.  Dove  Cottage  is  perhaps  more  often  thought  of  in  con- 
nection with  the  Poet  than  is  Rydal,  the  home  of  his  later  years. 

The  situation  was  beautiful  for  prospect,  being  on  the  right  of  the 
road  over  White  Moss  Common  as  you  approach  Grasmere  from 
Ambleside.  The  garden,  so  often  alluded  to  in  his  poetry,  slopes  up- 
ward to  the  wooded  heights,  and  has  not  suffered  much  alteration 
since  1800.  Here  still  bloom  the  primroses  and  daffodils.  From  the 
terrace,  approached  by  stone  steps  cut  by  Wordsworth  himself,  one 
gets  a  beautiful  view  across  the  lake  to  Silver  How,  Red  Bank, 
and  Loughrigg,  on  the  west  and  south  :  while  to  the  east  and  north 
the  eye  ranges  from  Fairfield,  Helvellyn,  and  Dunmail  Raise,  to 
Helm  Crag  and  Easdale.  The  view  from  the  front  of  the  house  has 
become  obstructed  by  cottages  and  a  pretentious  modern  hotel.  The 
description  given  in  the  following  poem  refers  to  this  abode. 

Hart-Leap  Well. 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  The  first  eight  stanzas  were 
composed  extempore  one  winter  evening  in  the  cottage.  When 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister  were  making  the  memorable  journey 
from  Sockburn  to  Grasmere,  they  met  a  peasant  who  told  them  the 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  54-62.  349 

story  of  the  Hart.  In  1887  I  visited  the  scene  here  described  and 
found  a  desolate  spot  indeed. 

"  More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey." 

The  aspens  and  stone  pillars  are  no  more,  but  the  stone  basin  still 
remains.  A  wall  has  been  built  where  it  is  possible  that  the  "  pillars  " 
stood.  Rev.  Mr.  Hutchinson,  who  visited  the  place  in  1S83,  thinks 
the  stone  in  the  wall,  which  shows  signs  of  having  been  hammer- 
dressed,  may  be  one  of  the  "pillars." 

99,  100.  I  never  list  presume  on  Pamasse  hill, 

But  piping  low  in  shade  of  lowly  grove, 
I  play  to  please  myself,  all  be  it  ill. 

Spenser. 

161-168.  Here  we  have  an  illustration  of  what  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold 
calls  Wordsworth's  chief  excellence,  —  the  way  in  which  he  deals  with 
the  question  How  to  live. 

"  In  common  things  that  round  us  lie, 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart." 

We  are  sharers  not  only  of  animal  but  of  vegetable  life ;  sharers 
with  the  higher  brute  animals  in  common  instincts  and  feelings  and 
affections.  ...  I  fancy  that  human  beings  maybe  more  humane  when 
they  realize  that,  as  their  dependent  associates  live  a  life  in  which 
man  has  a  share,  so  they  have  rights  which  man  is  bound  to  respect.  — 
Prof.  Asa  Gray,  Natural  Science  and  Religion. 

See  notes  on  Lines  Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-Tree. 

The  Brothers. 

This  poem  was  composed  in  a  grove  at  the  northeastern  end  of 
Grasmere  Lake,  which  grove  was  in  a  great  measure  destroyed  by 
turning  the  highroad  along  the  side  of  the  water.  The  few  trees  that 
are  left  were  spared  at  my  intercession.  The  poem  arose  out  of  the 
fact,  mentioned  to  me  at  Ennerdale,  that  a  shepherd  had  fallen  asleep 
upon  the  top  of  the  rock  called  the  Pillar,  and  perished  as  here 
described.  The  abruptness  with  which  the  poem  begins  is  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  it  was  intended  to  be  a  concluding  poem  of  a 
series  of  pastorals,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  among  the  mountains 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  —  W.  W. 

This  exquisite  idyl  —  the  most  dramatic  of  the  Poet's  works  — 
possesses  all  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  grand  and  beautiful  vale 
in  which  the  scene  is  laid.     Ennerdale  surpasses,  in  its  chaotic  gran- 


3SO  NOTES  TO  PAGE  62. 

deur,  any  other  vale  in  the  district ;  it  is  guarded  by  steep  and  lofty 
mountains  which  seem  to  force  the  little  community  of  dalesmen  into 
closer  unity  and  affection.  It  is  a  fitting  framework  for  a  healthy 
social  order. 

The  localizations  are  exact,  save  when  allusion  is  made  to  the 
"  Pillar  Rock "  as  the  point  from  which  James  had  fallen.  Pillar 
Mountain  evidently  is  meant,  s\XiQ&  Pillar  Rock  is  the  most  difficult 
bit  of  climbing  in  the  district. 

The  little  hamlet,  in  its  solemnity  and  peacefulness,  is  especially 
attractive  to  one  whose  life  during  most  of  the  year  is  passed  in  the 
rush  and  roar  of  the  city.  Reading  Wordsworth  with  this  prospect 
before  one  renders  the  poem  and  the  scene  almost  sacred. 

"  Full  many  a  spot 

Of  hidden  beauty  have  I  chanced  to  espy 

Among  the  mountains  ;  never  one  like  this, 

So  lonesome  and  so  perfectly  secure ; 

Peace  is  here  or  nowhere." 

In  the  conception  and  execution  of  this  poem  Wordsworth  is  at 
his  best.  It  was  a  subject  characteristic  of  him  as  a  man  and  a  poet. 
In  it  the  two  great  interests,  Man  and  Nature,  —  the  sphere  of  which 
he  contributed  so  much  to  enlarge  in  literature,  —  find  especial  develop- 
ment. The  picture  with  which  the  poem  begins  is  one  native  to  the 
soil  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  and  had  peculiar  charm  for 
the  Poet  of  "  plain  living  and  high  thinking ; "  he  delighted  in  this 
world  of  equality  and  ancient  homeliness,  where  attention  and  respect 
rested  not  upon  claims  of  wealth  or  blood,  but  upon  worth  and  strenu- 
ous industry.  The  congratulations  which  the  Vicar  says  would  meet 
the  returning  sailor  lad  show  to  what  an  extent  a  Christian  socialism 
prevailed  in  the  happy  vale.  The  process  by  which  the  Vicar  is  made 
at  one  time  to  alarm,  at  another  to  encourage,  the  stranger  in  his  timid 
questionings,  and  to  persist  in  talking  about  Leonard  as  of  more 
interest  now  to  the  little  community  than  is  the  dead  brother,  until 
at  last  the  solemn  truth  is  grasped,  disproves  all  assertions  that 
Wordsworth  had  no  dramatic  power. 

The  part,  too,  which  the  aspect  of  Nature  is  made  to  play  by  the 
narration  of  the  sudden  disappearance  of  one  of  the  becks  on  the 
hillside,  is  consummate  ;  for  Leonard  is  about  to  conclude  that  the  ap- 
parent change  is  due  to  himself  rather  than  to  Nature.  By  this  rev- 
elation that  he  is  not  deceived,  he  first  enters  the  shadows.  The 
terrible  blow  is  however  delayed,  and  the  faintest  gleams  of  hope  are 
revived  by  that  exquisitely  beautiful  picture  of  the  adoption  of  James 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  62-79.  35 ^ 

as  "  the  child  of  all  the  dale,"  at  the  time  when,  on  the  departure  of 
his  brother,  "  the  little  color  that  he  had  "  was  stealing  from  his  cheek. 
The  quiet  and  measured  tones  of  the  concluding  words  of  the  Vicar 
linger  with  us  ;  while  the  pathos  of  the  exclamation  "  My  Brother  !  " 
and  the  feeling  of  Leonard  that  the  place  is  one  in  which  he  can  no 
longer  bear  to  live,  is  almost  tragic. 

46-48.  For  a  discussion  of  Wordsworth's  use  of  sound  see  the 
notes  to  Yew-Trees,  1803. 

"It  was  an  April  Morning:  Fresh  and  Clear." 

This  and  the  two  following  poems  belong  to  a  class,  On  the  Naming 
of  Places,  written  to  record  incidents  which  happened  in  connection 
with  some  of  the  Poet's  friends.  To  one  familiar  with  the  Lake-land 
the  evidence  of  attachments  for  localities  where  little  incidents  have 
taken  place  is  seen  in  the  names  there  preserved.  All  lovers  of  the 
Poet  delight  in  identifying  places  especially  dear  to  him. 

The  scene  of  this  poem  is  in  Easdale,  a  half-hour's  walk  from  Dove 
Cottage.  Leaving  Grasmere  village  we  soon  cross  Goody  Bridge  and 
Easdale  beck,  by  the  side  of  which  the  Poet  said  he  had  composed 
thousands  of  verses.  Following  this  beck  from  the  bridge,  we  soon 
come  to  a  deep  pool,  with  a  "  single  mountain  cottage  "  not  far  distant. 
Dr.  Cradock  and  Professor  Knight  conclude  that  this  is  the  scene  of 
the  poem ;  yet  there  are  other  places  along  the  beck  which  answer  the 
description  equally  well.  It  is  certain  that  the  winding  path  along 
this  beck  to  the  tarn  was  a  chosen  resort  of  Wordsworth  and  his 
sister.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley  is  the  mountain  terrace, 
Lancrigg,  where  the  Prelude  was  composed. 

The  Poet's  sister  is  frequently  referred  to  as  "  Emma,"  or 
"  Emmeline." 

Cf .  Bryant's  Evening  Reverie. 

To  Joanna  (Hutchinson). 
The  scene  is  laid  on  the  Rotha,  the  river  which  flows  by  the  Gras- 
mere churchyard  (where  the  Poet  is  buried),  and  empties  into  the 
lake ;  thence  it  flows  into  Rydal  Water. 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave. 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hear  thy  voice  right  now  he  is  gone. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


352  NOTES   TO  PAGES  79-82. 

The  "  lofty  firs  "  are  those  in  the  churchyard  by  the  Lich  gate,  Th^ 
tall  rock  is  probably  on  the  side  of  Helm  Crag  which  overlooks  the 
Vale  from  the  north.  Hammar-scar,  Silver-How,  Loughrigg,  Fairfield, 
and  Helvellyn  are  the  mountains  which  surround  the  Vale;  while 
Skiddaw,  Glaramara,  and  Kirkstone  are  at  a  considerable  distance  on 
the  north  and  east. 

"There  is  an  Eminence." 

The  "  eminence  "  is  Stone-Arthur,  on  the  east  of  the  road  leading 
over  Dunmail  Raise,  and  is  between  Green  Head  Ghyll  and  Tongue 
Ghyll.     It  is  not,  however,  visible  from  the  "  orchard  seat." 

Father  of  English  Heroes,  Knight  of  Knights, 
Here  Arthur  sat,  Pendragon  newly-made. 

H.  D.  Rawnsley. 
The  last  verses  refer  to  his  sister. 

See  Tintern  Abbey,  The  Sparrow's  Nest,  and  Prelude,  xi.  333. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  memorials  of  the  Poet  and  his  friends 
is  the  Pock  of  Names,  which  is  on  the  right  of  the  road  to  Keswick,  by 
Thirlmere ;  it  is 

"  An  upright  mural  block  of  stone 
Moist  with  pure  water  trickling  down." 

Being  about  half-way  between  Grasmere  and  Keswick,  it  was  the 
favorite  meeting-place  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  On  it  are 
carved  the  initials  of  Wordsworth,  Mary  Hutchinson,  Dorothy,  Cole- 
ridge, John  Wordsworth,  and  Sara  Hutchinson.  Thanks  to  Rev.  Mr. 
Rawnsley,  Crosthwaite,  Keswick,  the  rock  is  to  be  removed  to  higher 
ground.  This  is  necessitated  by  the  fact  that  the  City  of  Manchester 
is  about  to  convert  Thirlmere  into  a  reservoir. 

"  Rock  of  Names  I 


We  worked  until  the  Initials  took 
Shapes  that  defied  a  scornful  look.  — 
Long  as  for  us  a  genial  feeling 
Survives,  or  one  in  need  of  healing, 
The  power,  dear  Rock,  around  thee  cast, 
Thy  monumental  power,  shall  last 
For  me  and  mine  !  O  thought  of  pain, 
That  would  impair  it  or  profane ! 
And  fail  not  Thou,  loved  Rock !  to  keep 
Thy  charge  when  we  are  laid  asleep." 


NOTES   TO  PAGE  82.  353 

Michael. 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere,  about  the  same  time  as  The 
Brothers.  .  .  .  The  character  and  circumstances  of  Luke  were  taken 
from  a  family  to  whom  had  belonged,  many  years  before,  the  house 
we  lived  in  at  Town-End,  along  with  some  fields  and  woodlands  on 
the  eastern  shore  of  Grasmere.  —  W.  W. 

Your  teachers  are  wisest  when  they  make  you  content  in  quiet  vir- 
tue; and  that  literature  and  art  are  best  for  you  which  point  out,  in 
common  life  and  familiar  things,  the  objects  for  hopeful  labor  and 
for  humble  love.  —  RusKiN.  ^ 

To  one  familiar  with  the  youth  and  education  of  Wordsworth  it' 
seems  but  natural  that  he  should  become  the  poet  of  humble  life. 
The  lives  of  such  men  as  composed  the  peasantry  of  the  district 
were  dear  to  him,  because  in  them  he  found  (instead  of  smooth  pre- 
cepts of  morality)  robust  dignity,  loyalty  to  truth,  devotion  to  duty, 
and  genial  human-heartedness,  together  with  a  spirit  of  independence 
and  stern  liberty ;  hence  every  such  life  had  a  profound  lesson  for 
him. 

"  Love  he  had  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie." 

The  incident  upon  which  this  robust  northern  pastoral  is  built  forms 
an  important  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  settlement  of  the  region ; 
in  the  Antiquities  of  Furness  it  is  related  that  when  the  Abbots  of 
Furness  enfranchised  their  villains  they  allowed  the  land  to  be  divided 
into  tenements,  each  of  which  was  to  furnish,  in  addition  to  the  rent, 
one  man  armed  for  the  king's  service.  By  degrees  the  population 
crept  toward  the  north.  Later,  when  the  Border  Wars  ceased,  and 
the  quota  f)f  armed  men  was  no  longer  needed,  the  land  passed  into 
absolute  ownership ;  hence  the  attachment  of  these  dalesmen,  or 
statesmen,  as  they  are  called,  to  these  hereditary  estates,  and  the  sac- 
rifices which  they  would  undergo  to  avoid  parting  with  them,  Mr. 
Myers  says  of  them  that  "  they  have  afforded  as  near  a  realization  as 
human  fates  would  allow  of  the  rural  society  which  statesmen  desire 
for  their  country's  welfare."  In  "  Michael  "  we  have  a  portrait  of  one 
of  these  Westmoreland  statesmen. 

The  scene  of  this  pastoral  is  Green-Head  Ghyll,  not  far  from  Dove 
Cottage.  Turning  to  the  right  from  the  highway  by  the  *'  Swan  Inn," 
and  following  the  beck,  one  will,  without  much  difficulty,  find  where 
the  "Evening  Star"  was  situated;  and  a  little  farther  up  the  beck 
sheepfolds,  which  are  now  used.  Probably  Michael's  fold  was  still 
higher  up ;  on  the  right  of  the  beck  there  is  a  large  oak-tree  which 
may  be  the  "Clipping  tree."     A  visit  to  the  Ghyll  and  the  pasture 

23 


354  NOTES   TO  PAGES  82-105. 

land  on  the  side  of  Fairfield  is  of  great  assistance  to  the  appreciation 
of  the  spirit  of  the  poem. 

It  has  been  said  that  Wordsworth  was  an  optimist,  and  this  is  true 
if  by  it  is  meant  that  he  teaches  us  to  transmute  even  an  "  agonizing 
sorrow "  into  a  source  of  strength ;  this  is  an  optimism  which  never 
attempts  to  solve  the  problem  of  suffering  that  is  in  no  sense  retribu- 
tive, but  endeavors  to  present  to  us 

"  Soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering." 

In  the  matter  of  style  this  is  the  most  perfect  of  all  Wordsworth's  nar- 
rative poems  ;  perhaps  in  no  poem  of  his  is  there  such  complete  subor- 
dination of  language  to  the  thought ;  the  two  are  related  in  such  a 
way  as  to  illustrate  a  style  which  conserves  the  mental  economy  of  the 
reader.  The  theme  and  the  language  are  equally  simple  ;  there  is  no 
attempt  to  heighten  the  effect  by  artifices  of  "  poetic  diction."  This  be- 
ing so,  what  is  there  in  the  poem  that  renders  it  the  delight  of  all  who 
are  familiar  with  it.?  It  is  its  sympathy,  its  sincerity,  its  vigor  —  that 
tone  which  comes  from  living  and  thinking  close  to  the  heart  of  things. 

Nature  herself  seems  to  take  the  pen  out  of  his  hand  and  to  write 
for  him  with  her  bare,  sheer,  penetrating  power.  —  Matthew^  Arnold. 

Emerson  warns  us  against  acquiring  the  false  doctrine  that  there  is 
anything  else  in  style  than  the  "transparent  medium  through  which 
■we  should  see  new  and  good  thoughts." 

See  Wordsworth's  letter  to  Thomas  Poole,  in  vol.  ii.  of  Thomas  Poole 
and  his  Friends ;  also  Scott's  Marmion,  introduction  to  Canto  iv. 
55-105- 

The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine. 

There  are  three  roads  from  Grasmere  to  Rydal :  one,  a  footpath 
under  Nab  Scar,  which  Dr.  Arnold  called  "  Old  Corruption  ;  "  a  sec- 
ond over  White-moss  Common,  which  he  called  "  Bit  by  Bit  Reform ;" 
and  a  third,  the  coach-road  by  the  lake-side,  "  Radical  Reform."  It 
is  by  the  first  of  these  roads  that  the  scene  of  this  poem  is  laid.  Eg- 
lantines still  grow  there,  though  not  abundantly. 

The  Oak  and  the  Broom. 

Suggested  on  the  mountain  pathway  \Bit  by  Bit  Reform].  The  pon- 
derous block  of  stone  which  is  mentioned  in  the  poem  remains,  I  be- 
lieve, to  this  day,  a  good  way  up  Nab  Scar.  —  W.  W. 

The  above  note  helps  us  to  determine  the  locality.  There  is  still 
a  large  stone  far  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  it  may  be  the 
"  lofty  stone  "  of  this  poem. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  105,106.  355 

1801. 

This  year  the  Excursion  was  begun. 

The  Sparrow's  Nest. 

Written  in  the  orchard,  Town-End,  Grasmere.  At  the  end  of  the 
garden  of  my  father's  house  at  Cockermouth  was  a  high  terrace  that 
commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  river  Derwent  and  Cockermouth  Castle. 
This  was  my  favorite  playground.  The  terrace  wall,  a  low  one, 
was  covered  with  closely-clipt  privet  and  roses,  which  gave  an  almost 
impervious  shelter  to  birds  who  built  their  nests  there.  The  latter  of 
these  stanzas  alludes  to  one  of  these  nests.  —  W.  W. 

Cockermouth,  the  birthplace  of  the  Poet,  is  situated  at  the  junction 
of  the  Cocker  and  the  Derwent.  It  is  an  old  market  town  and  par- 
liamentary borough  of  Cumberland.  The  old  manor  house,  with  its 
garden  and  terrace  in  the  rear,  remains  very  much  as  it  was  in  the 
Poet's  time.  The  present  owner,  R.  Mitchell,  Jr.,  Esq.,  shows  great 
kindness  to  all  those  who  visit  the  place. 

Wordsworth  lived  at  Cockermouth  until  the  family  was  broken  up 
by  the  death  of  his  mother  in  1778,  when  he  and  his  brother  went  to 
Hawkshead  to  school,  and  Dorothy  went  to  live  with  maternal  rela- 
tives at  Penrith.  William  and  Dorothy  were  together  but  little  after 
this,  until  that  crisis  of  his  life,  and  then  by  her  ministrations  she  led 
him  back  — 

"  To  those  sweet  counsels  between  head  and  heart 

Whence  grew  that  genuine  knowledge  fraught  with  peace." 

Cf.  Prelude,  i.  269  ;  xi.  333. 

y    1802. 

Alice  Fell. 

Written  to  gratify  Mr.  Graham,  of  Glasgow,  brother  of  the  author 
of  The  Sabbath.  He  was  a  zealous  coadjutor  of  Mr.  Clarkson,  and  a 
man  of  ardent  humanity.  The  incident  had  happened  to  himself,  and 
he  urged  me  to  put  it  into  verse.  —  W.  W. 

This  was  one  of  the  poems  which  was  game  for  the  critics.  It  well 
illustrates  Wordsworth's  poetic  creed.  However  far  below  his  best 
work  it  maybe,  it  is  a  great  advance  upon  that  of  the  artificial  school. 
All  lovers  of  Wordsworth  can  afford  to  acknowledge  that  at  times  he 
worked  his  theory  too  hard,  and  that  in  his  attempts  to  avoid  artifi' 


356  NOTES   TO  PAGES  106-114. 

ciality  he  fell  into  versifying ;  his  instincts  were  correct,  but  his  deduc- 
tions from  them  were  at  times  faulty.    We  should  not  forget,  however, 
that  these  lapses  are  a  necessary  feature  of  the  man  Wordsworth. 
See  Preface  to  Matthew  Arnold's  Selections  from  Wordsworth, 

Beggars. 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  Met  and  described  to  me  by  my 
sister  near  the  quarry  at  the  head  of  Rydal  Lake  —  a  place  still  a 
chosen  resort  of  vagrants  travelling  with  their  families.  —  W.  W. 

In  this  poem  we  have  a  realization  of  — 

"  She  gave  me  eyes,  —  she  gave  me  ears." 

It  was  a  singular  coincidence  when,  in  August,  1888,  on  passing  the 
quarry  and  discussing  this  poem,  we  met  a  party  of  beggars.  —  Ed. 
Cf.  Sequel,  18 1 7. 

Written  in  March. 

Extempore.  This  little  poem  was  a  favorite  of  Joanna  Baillie.  — 
W.  W. 

In  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  diary  is  a  beautiful  description  of  the 
occasion  of  this  poem  ;  it  was  a  walk  from  Patterdale,  over  Kirkstone 
Pass  to  Ambleside  :  — 

"  When  we  came  to  the  foot  of  Brother's  Water  I  left  William  sit- 
ting on  the  bridge,  and  went  along  the  path  on  the  right  side  of  the 
lake  through  the  wood.  When  I  returned  I  found  him  writing  a 
poem.  .  .  .  William  finished  his  poem  before  we  got  to  the  foot  of 
Kirkstone." 

"  My  Heart  Leaps  Up."     . 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  —  W.  W. 

This  poem  is  the  key-note  of  all  Wordsworth's  poetry:  it  is  the 
Prelude  condensed  into  a  lyric. " 

The  Redbreast  Chasing  the  Butterfly. 

This  and  the  two  poems  following  were  written  in  the  orchard, 
Town-End,  Grasmere. 

The  second  refers  to  Cockermouth,  where  the  Poet  and  Emmeline 
(Dorothy)  spent  their  childhood. 

See  note  to  The  Sparrotv's  Nest. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  115-119.  357 

To  the  Small  Celandine.^ 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  It  is  remarkable  that  this  flower, 
coming  out  so  early  in  the  spring  as  it  does,  and  so  bright  and  beauti- 
ful, and  in  such  profusion,  should  not  have  been  noticed  earlier  in 
English  verse.  What  adds  much  to  the  interest  that  attends  it  is  its 
habit  of  shucting  itself  up  and  opening  out  according  to  the  degree  of 
light  and  temperature  of  the  air.  —  W.  W. 

In  Dorothy's  Journal  we  have  the  following:  — 

"  We  came  into  the  orchard  directly  after  breakfast,  and  sat  there. 
The  lake  vvao  calm,  the  sky  cloudy.  W.  began  to  write  the  poem  of 
the  Celandine.  ...  I  walked  backward  and  forward  with  William. 
He  repeated  his  poem  to  me." 

To  the  Same  Flower. 

In  Dorothy's  Journal,  May  i,  1802,  is  the  following:  — 

"  Wm.  wrote  the  Celandine,  second  part." 

The  buoyancy  and  vivacity,  the  spontaneity,  grace,  and  harmony 
resulting  from  a  perfect  adaptation  of  the  language  to  the  idea,  render 
these  poems  the  delight  of  all  who  joy  in  the  life  of  Nature.    Nature  — 

'*  Which  never  was  the  friend  of  one, 
Nor  promised  love  it  could  not  give, 
But  lit  for  all  its  generous  sun, 
And  lived  itself  and  made  us  live." 

The  Leech-Gatherer. 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  This  old  man  I  met  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  from  my  cottage ;  and  the  account  of  him  is  taken  from 
his  own  mouth.  I  was  in  the  state  of  feeling  described  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  poem,  while  crossing  over  Barton  Fell  from  Mr.  Clark- 
son's  at  the  foot  of  Ullswater,  towards  Askham.  The  image  of  the 
hare  I  then  observed  on  the  ridge  of  the  Fell.  —  W.  W. 

When  Wm.  and  I  returned  from  accompanying  Jones,  we  met  an 
old  man  almost  double.  .  .  .  His  trade  was  to  gather  leeches.  ...  It 
was  late  in  the  evening. — Journal. 

We  see  from  these  notes  that  the  elements  which  were  gathered  to- 
gether in  this  poem  were  from  various  sources.  The  mental  mood 
and  the  "  hare  running  races  in  her  mirth  "  are  brought  from  the  walk 

1  Common  Pile-wort.  See  Brvant's /^rme^c?  G^«/?a«,  Emerson's  ^/?£'<a?<7rar, 
and  Tennyson's  Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall. 


S$S  NOTES   TO  PAGES  1 19-124. 

over  Barton  Fell.     The  "lonely  moor"  with  the  "pool"  is  White 
Moss  Common,  which  one  crosses  by  the  middle  road  to  Rydal. 

After  the  storm  and  the  tumult  of  Nature  —  "the  roaring  of  the 
wind,"  and  the  driving  of  the  floods  —  there  came  the  calm,  the 
singing  of  the  birds^  the  music  of  the  becks,  the  fresh,  clear  atmos- 
phere, and  "  the  hare  running  races."    One  would  think  that  — 

"  A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company." 

A  kindred  mood  is  awakened  in  the  Poet,  but  it  is  soon  beclouded 
with  "  fears  and  fancies  "  which  arise  from  the  contrast  existing  be- 
tween the  free,  happy,  careless  life  of  all  the  unoffending  creatures  of 
God's  love,  and  the  life  of  man,  burdened  with  care  for  the  morrow, 
obliged  to  sow  beiEore  he  can  reap,  "looking  before  and  after." 
Strong  as  he  is,  he  is  nevertheless  made  weak  by  such  dejection ;  and 
in  this  weakness  there  appears  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  by  conversa- 
tion with  whom  strength  is  imparted,  power  is  given,  a  new  motive 
^for  living  is  supplied,  life  is  made  a  happier  and   a   diviner  thing. 

As  to  style,  we  might  almost  say  there  is  none.  By  the  simplest 
language,  in  the  absence  of  all  color,  with  no  complexity  of  incident, 
we  have  one  of  the  most  harmonious  and  determined  of  sketches, — 
the  beauty  and  the  strength  of  repose. 

In  its  ethical  bearing  the  poem  makes  common  cause  with  all  of 
the  Poet's  best  work,  the  message  of  which  is  —  "  Waste  not !  "  That 
Wordsworth's  philosophy  in  this  respect  is  not  theoretical  but  practi- 
cal, we  will  let  one  who  has  made  trial  of  it  testify. 

John  Stuart  Mill,  in  a  time  of  disappointment  at  the  failure  of  cher- 
ished hopes,  and  when  life  seemed  nothing  but  a  struggle  against  cruel 
necessity,  went  to  Wordsworth's  poetry,  and  of  the  result  says  :  — 

"  What  made  Wordsworth's  poems  a  medicine  for  my  state  of 
mind,  was  that  they  expressed,  not  mere  outward  beauty,  but  states 
of  feeling,  under  the  excitement  of  beauty.  They  seemed  to  be  the 
very  culture  of  the  feelings  which  I  was  in  quest  of.  In  them  I 
seemed  to  draw  from  a  source  of  inward  joy,  of  sympathetic  and  im- 
aginative pleasure,  which  could  be  shared  in  by  all  human  beings, 
which  had  no  connection  with  struggle  or  imperfection,  but  would  be 
made  richer  by  every  improvement  in  the  physical  or  social  condition 
of  mankind.  From  them  I  seemed  to  learn  what  would  be  the  peren- 
nial sources  of  happiness,  when  all  the  greater  evils  of  life  shall  have 
been  removed.  And  I  felt  myself  at  once  better  and  happier  as  I 
came  under  their  influence." 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  125-130.  359 

A  Farewell. 

Composed  just  before  my  sister  and  I  went  to  fetch  Mrs.  Words- 
worth from  Gallow-hill,  near  Scarborough. —  W.  W. 

The  local  allusions  in  this  poem  are  to  Dove  Cottage  and  its  sur- 
roundings.    See  On  Nature  s  Invitation  do  I  Come. 

In  1802  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale  died.  He  had  refused  to  repay  the 
Wordsworth  family  the  money  which  had  been  borrowed  from  their 
father ;  his  successor  at  once  discharged  the  debt  with  interest.  By 
this  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  received  ;^i,8oo  each.  With  this  ad- 
dition to  the  Poet's  income,  he  was  enabled  to  marry  Mary  Hutchin- 
son, with  whom  he  had  been  at  school  at  Penrith,  and  who  had  been 
the  long-time  friend  of  himself  and  his  sister  Dorothy.  He  was  mar- 
ried on  Oct.  4,  1802,  at  Brompton  Church  near  Scarborough,  and  they 
returned  to  Grasmere  on  the  evening  of  the  6th.  See  She  Was  a 
Phantom  of  Delight,  To  Mary  Wordsworth,  Afterthought,  Prelude, 
xiv.  266-275. 

55,  56.    Cf.  The  Sparrow's  Nest. 

Stanzas  Written  in  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Composed  in  the  orchard,  Town-End,  Grasmere,  Coleridge  living 
with  us  much  at  this  time ;  his  son  Hartley  has  said  that  his  father's 
character  and  habits  are  here  preserved  in  a  livelier  way  than  in  any- 
thing that  has  been  written  about  him.  —  W.  W. 

The  characters  alluded  to  in  the  poem  are  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge ;  there  is  some  difficulty,  however,  in  assigning  the  stanzas.  The 
editor  of  the  Memoirs  concludes  that  the  allusions  in  the  first  four 
stanzas  are  to  Wordsworth,  and  those  in  the  last  three  to  Coleridge. 
Professor  Dowden  thinks  that  Coleridge  is  referred  to  in  the  first, 
and  William  Calvert  in  the  last  verses.  There  is  much  to  sustain  this 
idea.  Mr.  Ainger  says  that  Wordsworth  here  describes  Coleridge 
and  Thomas  Poole. 

"The  Sun  has  Long  been  Set." 

This  impromptu  appeared  many  years  ago,  among  the  author's 
poems,  from  which,  in  subsequent  editions,  it  was  excluded.  It  is  re- 
printed at  the  request  of  the  Friend  in  whose  presence  the  lines  were 
thrown  off.  —  W.  W. 

The  PViend  alluded  to  was  his  sister. 


360  NOTES  TO  PAGES  131,  132. 

To  H.  C. 

Hartley  Coleridge,  the  eldest  son  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
This  poem  was  singularly  prophetic  of  that  life  of  dreamy  wayward- 
ness, of  lonely  wanderings,  of  lofty  hopes  and  deep  despair. 

The  gift  of  continuous  conversation  which  distinguished  his  father 
was  his  no  less,  and  it  won  for  him  hosts  of  friends.  The  following 
sonnet  of  his  supplements  Wordsworth's  poem  :  — 

"  Long  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child  when  years    j 

Had  painted  manhood  on  my  cheek,  was  I : 

For  yet  I  lived  like  one  not  born  to  die, 

A  thriftless  prodigal  of  smiles  and  tears ; 

No  hope  I  needed,  and  I  knew  no  fears. 

But  sleep,  though  sweet,  is  only  sleep ;  and  waking, 

I  waked  to  sleep  no  more,  at  once  o'ertaking 

The  vanguard  of  my  age,  with  all  arrears 

Of  duty  on  my  back.     Nor  child,  nor  man. 

Nor  youth,  nor  sage,  I  find  my  head  is  gray, 

For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran  ; 

A  rathe  December  blights  my  lagging  May; 

And  still  I  am  a  child,  tho'  I  be  old ; 

Time  is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold." 

His  body  lies  in  Grasmere  Church-yard,  near  that  of  his  friend  and 
benefactor,  Wordsworth. 

Nab  Cottage,  where  Hartley  lived  and  died,  is  on  the  coachroad  from 
Rydal  to  Grasmere,  and  faces  Rydal  Water.  It  is  now  a  favorite  lodg- 
ing house  in  the  Lake  District.  The  following  lines  on  Nab  Cottage 
are  from  a  sonnet  by  H.  D.  Rawnsley  :  — 

"  Unchanged  the  scene,  and  still  the  sycamore 
Flutters  its  seed-wings  to  the  Poet's  door ; 
But  those  gay  flowers,  whose  garden  home  he  planned, 
Have  strayed  abroad  to  please  the  wand'rer's  hand : 
How  like  himself,  the  Muse's  delicate  child, 
Whose  life  was  of  the  wind,  rejoicing  to  be  wild." 
See  Hartley  Coleridge's  Sonnet  on  Wordsworth. 

To  the  Daisy. 

This  and  the  other  poems  addressed  to  the  same  flower  were  com- 
posed at  Town-End,  Grasmere,  during  the  earlier  part  of  my  residence 
there.  .  .  .  The  last  two  were  overflowings  of  the  same  mood. — W.  W. 

The  product  of  Wordsworth's  impassioned  and  illumined  gaze  which 
we  have  in  these  three  poems  shows  us  in  what  special  sense  he  was 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  132-139.  361 

the  poet  of  Nature.  His  imagination  is  both  creative  and  perceptive, 
and  is  the  result  of  habitual  communion  with  Nature,  and  constant 
reflection  upon  her  impressions.  He  comes  to  her  as  a  priest  to 
whom  she  would  confide  her  secrets;  his  communion  is  holy,  and 
hence  he  inspires  his  disciples  with  an  enthusiasm  which  is  calm  and 
deep,  rather  than  tumultuous. 

Although  English  literature  is  not  wanting  in  admirable  descrip- 
tions of  Nature,  yet  the  idea  of  Nature  as  having  ''a  function  apostoli 
cal,"  as  ministering  both  to  moral  and  to  spiritual  power  —  to  console, 
inspire,  reward,  and  recreate  —  does  not  appear  in  poetry  prior  to  this 
time;  not  even  in  Scotland,  where  the  love  of  Nature  was  wellnigh 
universal.  The  view  of  Nature  as  organically  agreeable  and  as  tend- 
ing to  physical  comfort  was  then  prevalent ;  the  idea  of  Nature  as 
Zurnishing  helps  to  a  pure  contemplative  pleasure  which  is  above  mere 
sensation  was  almost  unknown.  Wordsworth's  method  does  not  fur- 
ther the  spirit  that  would  "  peep  and  botanize,"  but  that  which  would 
"  see  into  the  life  of  things." 

The  maxims  of  Wordsworth's  form  of  natural  religion  were  uttered 
before  Wordsworth  only  in  the  sense  in  which  the  maxims  of  Christi- 
anity were  uttered  before  Christ.  — F.  W.  Myers. 

To  Shelley  a  flower  is  a  thing  of  light  and  of  love,  —  bright  with  its 
yearning,  pale  with  its  passion.  To  Thomson  a  flower  is  an  object 
which  has  a  certain  shape  and  color.  To  Wordsworth  a  flower  is  a 
living  partaker  of  the  common  spiritual   life   and  joy  of  being.  — 

DOWDEN. 

1803. 

The  Green  Linnet. 

Composed  in  the  orchard,  Town-End,  Grasmere,  where  the  bird  was 
often  seen  as  here  described. —  W.  W. 

The  "  orchard  seat "  was  upon  the  terrace  at  the  rear  of  the  garden, 
and  was  reached  by  stone  steps  cut  by  the  Poet  himself.  At  the 
present  time  an  arbor  stands  there. 

In  none  of  the  Lyrics  is  there  to  be  found  such  natural  magic,  such 
felicity  of  interpretation,  such  complete  abandonment  of  all  the  facul- 
ties in  the  thrill  of  the  soul  entering  into  the  life  of  Nature.  In  all 
respects  this  exquisite  poem  conforms  to  Milton's  canon  — 

"  Simple,  sensuous,  impassioned." 
When  a   poet   can   interpret   by  "natural   magic,"  as  here,  and  by 
"  moral  profundity,"  as  in  Tintern  Abbey,  he  performs  for  us  the  high- 


362  NOTES   TO   PAGES  139,  140. 

est  and  holiest  service  which  is  ever  in  the  power  of  man  to  perform. 
For  — 

"  With  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 

Coleridge,  in  his  Biographia  Literaria,  chap,  xxii.,  cites  this  poem  as 
an  illustration  of  "  The  perfect  truth  of  Nature  in  his  [Wordsworth's] 
images  and  descriptions  as  taken  immediately  from  Nature,  and  prov- 
ing a  long  and  genial  intimacy  with  the  very  spirit  which  gives  the 
physiognomic  expression  to  all  the  works  of  Nature." 

Yew-Trees. 

Written  at  Grasmere.     In  no  part  of  England,  or  of  Europe,  have 
I  ever  seen  a  yew-tree  at  all  approaching  this  in  magnitude.  —  W.  W. 
At  this  time  Wordsworth  was  at  work  upon  the  Prelude  and  the 
Excursioit.     The  one  — 

"  An  Orphic  song  indeed,  — 
A  song  divine,  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts, 
To  their  own  music  chanted." 

The  other  the  spousal  hymn  for  the 

*'  Discerning  intellect  of  man 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion." 

The  result  of  this  union,  this  commerce  of  the  mind  of  man  and  the 
external  world,  was  such  an  ideal  creation  as  we  have  here  :  ideal 
and  yet  true,  for  the  outcome  of  the  "  light  "  and  the  "  gleam  "  of 
poetic  imagination  is  not  fancy,  but  truth.  Its  revelation  is  of  essen- 
tial, not  of  accidental,  relations. 

Professor  Shairp,  in  alluding  to  the  natural  idealism  of  Wordsworth, 
says  :  "  In  this,  I  conceive,  lies  his  transcendent  power,  that  the  ideal 
light  he  sheds  is  a  true  light;  and  the  more  ideal  it  is,  the  more 
true." 

Coleridge,  in  challenging  for  Wordsworth  the  gift  of  imagination 
(and  citing  this  poem),  says  :  '*  In  imaginative  power  he  stands  nearest 
of  all  modern  writers  to  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  yet  in  kind  per- 
fectly unborrowed  and  his  own." 

Ruskin,  alluding  to  this  poem,  in  Modern  Painters^  says  :  "  I  consider 
it  the  most  vigorous  and  solemn  bit  of  forest  landscape  ever  painted." 

The  "  Pride  of  Lorton  Vale  "  has  lost  its  beauty  and  its  grandeur, 
and  in    1883  the   "  Fraternal  Four "   were   visited   by  a  whirlwind 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  140,141.  3^3 

which  uprooted  and  despoiled  them.    The  largest  yews  in  the  district 
are  now  those  of  Yewdale.     See  Prelude,  i.  306. 

The  following  sonnet  by  H.  D.  Rawnsley  is  the  third  in  his  trilogy 
on  the  Yews  of  Borrowdale :  — 

"  111  could  we  spare  the  tree  St.  Patrick  knew.^ 
When  first  for  Christ  to  these  rude  vales  he  spoke; 
And  better  far  had  fallen  the  Rydal  Oak,2 
Or  —  Time's  vast  hollow  monument  —  the  Yew  3 
Which  stands  in  sight  of  Wetherlam  :   Ah,  few 
The  souls  who  then  had  felt  that  tempest's  stroke, 
So  many  bonds  about  the  heart  had  broke, 
And  breaking,  swept  old  memories  from  view. 
For  to  this  grove,  by  storm  in  ruins  hurled, 
Had  Glaramara  down  the  centuries  seen 
Hope  and  mute  Prayer  and  Love  and  Mystery  throng  ; 
And  since  our  Wordsworth  murmured  out  his  song, 
Its  dark  four-pillared  vault  of  evergreen 
Was  Temple  for  the  music  of  the  world." 

One  of  the  most  marked  features  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  shown  in 
the  closing  verses  of  this  poem,  is  due  to  his  exquisite  sensibility  to 
sound:  he  seems  to  have  possessed,  together  with  "an  eye  practised 
like  a  blind  man's  touch,"  the  "  inevitable  ear."  Those  recollections 
in  tranquillity  which  are  the  fundamental  processes  of  his  mind  are  as 
often  directed  to  the  reproduction  of  sounds  as  of  sights ;  and  in  his 
study  of  Nature  "to  lie  and  listen"  was  as  essential  as  to  look  abroad 
and  gaze.  One  of  the  most  touching  of  these  allusions  is  in  the 
Brothers :  — 

"  Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 

The  tones  of  waterfalls,  and  inland  sounds 

Of  caves  and  trees." 

Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland. 

The  year  1803  was  made  memorable  by  the  visit  of  the  Poet,  his 
sister,  and  Coleridge,  to  Scotland.  He  had  been  born  and  reared  in 
sight  of  "the  land  of  song,"  yet  not  until  this  year  had  he  set  foot 
upon  her  soil.  Dorothy's  Journal  is  a  record  of  this  journey,  and  is 
hardly  less  poetical  than  the  immortal  poems.  In  visiting  Scotland 
in  1887,  I  found  the  Journal  the  best  guide  to  these  localities. 

1  The  Patterdale  Yew,  — destroyed  in  the  same  storm. 

2  In  the  grounds  of  Rydal  are  some  of  the  oldest  forest-trees. 

3  The  Great  Yew  of  Yewdale. 


364  NOTES   TO  PAGES  141-147. 

At  the  Grave  of  Bums. 

The  party  left  Keswick  on  Monday  morning,  August  15,  and  reached 
Dumfries  on  the  evening  of  the  17th.  Under  date  of  Thursday,  the 
i8th,  Dorothy  wrote  :  "  Went  to  the  churchyard  where  Burns  is  buried. 
...  He  lies  at  a  corner  of  the  churchyard,  and  his  son  Francis  Wal- 
lace beside  him.  .  .  .  We  looked  at  the  grave  with  melancholy  and 
painful  reflections,  repeating  to  each  other  his  own  verses :  — 

*  Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave  ?  — 
Here  let  him  pause  and  through  a  tear 
Survey  this  grave.'  " 

Thoughts  suggested  the  Day  Following  On  the  Banks  of  the  Nith. 

The  Journal  continues  :  — 

"  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dumfries,  which  is  no  agreeable  place  to 
them  who  do  not  love  the  bustle  of  a  town  which  seems  to  be  rising 
up  to  wealth.  In  our  road  to  Brownhill  we  passed  Ellisland  at  a 
little  distance  on  our  right.  .  .  .  Travelled  through  the  vale  of  Nith, 
here  little  like  a  vale  it  is  so  broad,  with  irregular  hills  rising  up  on 
each  side.  .  .  .  Left  the  Nith  about  a  mile  and  a  half  and  reached 
Brownhill,  a  lonely  inn." 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns. 

*'  I  cannot  take  leave  of  the  country  which  we  passed  through  to- 
day (iSth)  without  mentioning  that  we  saw  the  Cumberland  Mountains. 
.  ...  Drayton  has  prettily  described  the  connection  which  this  neigh- 
borhood has  with  ours  when  he  makes  Skiddaw  say  :  — 

*  Scurfree,!  from  the  sky, 
That  Anadale  2  doth  crown  with  a  most  amorous  eye, 
Salutes  me  every  day.' 

These  lines  occurred  to  William's  memory,  and  we  talked  of  Burns 
and  of  the  prospect  he  must  have  had,  perhaps  from  his  own  door,  of 
Skiddaw  and  his  companions.  .  .  .  We  talked  of  Coleridge's  children 
and  family,  then  at  the  foot  of  Skiddaw,  and  our  own  new-born  John 
a  few  miles  behind  it,  while  at  the  grave  of  Burns's  son,  which  we 
had  just  seen  by  the  side  of  his  father ;  and  some  stories  heard  at 

1  Criffel.  2  Annandale. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  I47-I49.  3^5 

Dumfries  respecting  the  dangers  his  surviving  children  were  exposed 
to  filled  us  with  a  melancholy  concern  which  had  a  kind  of  connection 
with  ourselves.  In  recollection  of  this  William  long  afterwards  wrote 
the  following  address  to  the  sons  of  the  ill-fated  poet.  — Journal. 

What  could  be  more  fitting  than  that  the  first-fruits  of  this  visit  to 
Scotland  should  be  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  that  poet  who  had 
taught  Wordsworth 

"  How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 
On  humble  truth  "  ? 

These  poems  written  in  Burns's  favorite  metre  are  the  finest  tribute 
ever  paid  to  that  "  darling  of  the  Muses." 

To  a  Highland  Girl. 

The  tourists  had  the  usual  experience  with  Scottish  weather,  and 
when  they  left  Loch  Kettrine  for  Loch  Lomond  it  rained  almost  con- 
tinually ;  the  Journal  for  the  28th  has  the  following  ;  — 

"  When  beginning  to  descend  the  hill  toward  Loch  Lomond  we  over- 
took two  girls,  who  told  us  we  could  not  cross  the  ferry  until  evening, 
for  the  boat  was  gone  with  a  number  of  people  to  church.  One  of 
the  girls  was  exceedingly  beautiful :  and  the  figures  of  both  of  them, 
in  gray  plaids  falling  to  their  feet,  their  faces  only  being  uncovered, 
excited  our  attention  before  we  spoke  to  them.  I  think  I  never  heard 
the  English  language  sound  more  sweetly  than  from  the  mouth  of  the 
elder  of  these  girls,  as  she  stood  at  the  gate  answering  our  inquiries, 
her  face  flushed  with  the  rain."  They  waited  at  the  ferry-house  until 
the  return  of  the  boat  in  the  afternoon,  when  they  crossed  and  walked 
to  Tarbet.  Long  after  his  return  Wordsworth  wrote  this  poem  in 
recollection  of  the  experience  at  the  ferry-house. 

In  the  Fenwick  note  to  this  poem  Wordsworth  says :  **  The  sort 
of  prophecy  with  which  the  verses  conclude  has,  through  God's  good- 
ness, been  realized;  and  now  approaching  the  close  of  my  seventy- 
third  year  I  have  a  most  vivid  remembrance  of  her  and  the  beautiful 
objects  with  which  she  was  surrounded." 

It  is  in  such  poems  as  this  that  we  see  illustrated  what  Mr.  Bagehot 
calls  the/«r<r,  as  distinguished  from  the  ornate^  in  poetic  st3de.  The 
pure  style  depends  for  its  efficacy  upon  penetrating  at  once  to  the 
heart  of  scene  or  character,  and  using  only  such  accessories  of  im- 
agery and  dress  as  are  essential  to  a  grasp  of  the  spirit  of  the  whole ; 
while  the  ornate  depends  upon  the  number  of  striking  allusions,  the 
wealth  of  figure,  and  abundance  of  drapery.     By  most  readers,  per- 


366  NOTES   TO  PAGES  149-154- 

haps,  the  ornate  style  is  preferred,  because  it  ministers  to  their  love 
of  mannerism,  artificiality,  and  display ;  so  that,  as  Mr.  Bagehot  says, 
"  A  dressy  literature,  an  exaggerated  literature,  seem  to  be  fated  to 
us.     These  are  our  curses,  as  other  times  had  theirs." 

That  the  influence  of  Wordsworth,  wherever  it  has  free  course,  is 
powerful  in  eliminating  this  vicious  tendency,  is  the  testimony  of  all 
who  come  under  his  power.  To  intrust  the  young  to  the  guardian- 
ship of  this  "  Friend  of  the  wise  and  teacher  of  the  good  "  is  to  put 
them  in  possession  of  a  source  of  health  and  happiness  which  will 
prove  inexhaustible.     See  Hudson's  Studies  in  Wordsworth,  p.  22. 

"  The  first  step  towards  a  revolution  in  our  state  of  society,"  says 
Emerson,  "would  be  to  impress  men's  minds  with  the  fact  that  the 
purest  pleasures  of  life  are  at  hand  unknown  to  them." 

See  Emerson  in  Concord. 

Address  to  Kilchurn  Castle. 

Not  long  after  leaving  Loch  Lomond,  Coleridge  parted  with  the 
Wordsworths,  and  they  passed  on  to  Inverary  and  by  Loch  Awe  to 
Dalmally. 

The  first  three  lines  were  impromptu^  and  the  rest  written  a  long 
time  after.  Not  far  from  the  spot  where  Wordsworth  poured  out  these 
verses  is  now  to  be  seen  a  monument  of  rude  unhewn  stones  cemented 
together.  This  monument  has  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  Dun- 
can Maclntyre,  the  Bard  of  Glenorchy  —  Fair  Duncan  of  the  Songs. 
He  lived  on  the  lands  of  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane,  by  whose  family 
Kilchurn  Castle  had  been  built. 

See  Shairp's  Aspects  of  Poetry,  chap.  x. 

43.  The  tradition  is  that  the  Castle  was  built  by  a  Lady  during  the 
absence  of  her  Lord  in  Palestine. 

This  piece  is,  to  me,  one  of  the  author's  grandest  displays  of  im- 
aginative power  ;  hardly  inferior  to  the  Yew-trees.  —  Hudson. 

Qlen-Almain. 

On  leaving  Dunkeld  for  Callander  they  concluded  to  go  by  Crieff, 
as  the  "  Sma'  Glen  "  would  be  on  their  way. 

September  9.  We  entered  the  glen  at  a  small  hamlet  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  head,  and  turning  aside  a  few  steps  ascended  a  hillock 
which  commanded  a  view  to  the  top  of  it,  —  a  very  sweet  scene,  a  green 
valley,  not  very  narrow,  with  a  few  scattered  trees  and  huts,  almost 
invisible  in  a  misty  gleam  of  afternoon  light.  At  this  hamlet  we 
crossed  a  bridge,  and  a  road  led  us  down  the  glen,  which  had  become 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  154-156.  3^7 

exceedingly  narrow,  and  so  continued  to  the  end :  the  hills  on  both 
sides  heathy  and  rocky,  very  steep,  but  continuous  ;  there  are  no  trees, 
no  houses,  no  traces  of  civilization,  not  one  outstanding  object.  It  is 
truly  a  solitude.  The  following  poem  was  written  by  William  on 
hearing  a  tradition  relating  to  it.  — Journal. 

Dorothy  gives  us  the  physical  features  of  the  place,  while  in  the 
poem  we  have  the  moral  emotion  which  the  scene  awakens ;  each 
is  the  counterpart  of  the  other.  A  close  study  of  the  work  of  the 
"  Sister  "  will  reveal  the  truth  of  the  lines,  — 

"  She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears." 

Stepping  Westward. 

From  Callander  they  went  to  Loch  Kettrine,  revisiting  the  Tros- 
sachs,  of  which  Dorothy  writes :  "  I  can  add  nothing  to  my  former 
description  of  the  Trossachs,  except  that  we  departed  with  our  old 
delightful  remembrances  endeared,  and  many  new  ones."  Passing  on 
to  the  head  of  Loch  Kettrine,  she  continues  :  "  We  have  never  had  a 
more  delightful  walk  than  this  evening.  Ben  Lomond  and  the  three 
pointed-topped  mountains  of  Loch  Lomond  were  very  majestic  under 
the  clear  sky,  the  lake  perfectly  calm,  and  the  air  sweet  and  mild. 
The  sun  had  been  set  for  some  time,  when  our  path  having  led  us 
close  to  the  shore  of  the  calm  lake,  we  met  two  neatly  dressed 
women,  without  hats,  who  had  probably  been  taking  their  Sunday 
evening's  walk.  One  of  them  said  to  me  in  a  friendly,  soft  tone  of 
voice, 'What!  are  you  stepping  westward  ? '  I  cannot  describe  how 
affecting  this  simple  expression  was  in  that  remote  place,  with  the 
western  sky  in  front,  yet  glowing  with  the  departing  sun.  William 
wrote  the  following  poem  long  after,  in  remembrance  of  his  feelings 
and  mine." 

In  making  the  accidental  interrogation  reveal  the  soul  of  the  scene, 
while  being  itself  exalted  by  it,  Wordsworth  transfigures  the  whole. 
By  his  wonderful  aptness  in  selecting  the  points  of  vantage,  and  by 
his  conciseness,  he  produces  the  maximum  of  power. 

The  Solitary  Reaper. 

Having  crossed  Loch  Lomond  they  continued  their  journey  through 
Glenfalloch  and  Glengyle,  along  the  side  of  Loch  Voil  between  the 
braes  of  Balquidder  and  Stratheyer,  and  returned  to  Callander.  Of 
the  scenery  by  Loch  Voil  Dorothy  says  :  "  As  we  descended,  the  scene 
became  more  fertile,  our  way  being  pleasantly  varied,  —  through  cop- 


\/ 


368  NOTES  TO  PAGES  156-158. 

pice  or  open  fields,  and  passing  farm-houses,  though  always  with  an 
intermixture  of  uncultivated  ground.  It  was  harvest-time,  and  the 
fields  were  quietly  —  might  I  say  pensively  ?  —  enlivened  by  small  com- 
panies of  reapers.  It  is  not  uncommon  in  the  more  lonely  parts  of 
the  Highlands  to  see  a  single  person  so  employed.  The  folloAving 
poem  was  suggested  to  William  by  a  beautiful  sentence  in  Thomas 
Wilkinson's  Toiir  in  Scotland." 

What  poet  ever  produced  such  beauty  and  power  with  so  simple 
materials  1  The  maiden,  the  latest  lingerer  in  the  field,  is  the  medium 
through  which  the  romance  of  Highland  scenery,  and  the  soul  of  soli- 
tary Highland  life  is  revealed  to  us ;  even  her  voice  seems  a  part  of 
Nature,  so  mysteriously  does  it  blend  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
It  is  to  such  influences  as  this  that  the  Poet  refers  in  the  lines,  — 

*'  And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude." 

In  solitude  were  these  poems  conceived,  and  in  solitude  only  can 
they  be  fully  appreciated. 

Yarrow  Unvisited. 

On  returning  from  the  Highlands  they  spent  a  day  in  Edinburgh 
and  then  went  to  Roslin.  On  the  morning  of  September  17  they 
walked  to  Lasswade,  and  met,  for  the  first  time,  Walter  Scott,  who  was 
living  there.  In  the  afternoon  Scott  accompanied  them  to  Roslin  and 
left  them  with  the  promise  to  meet  them  at  Melrose  two  days  after. 
Passing  on  to  Peebles  they  travelled  down  the  Tweed,  past  Neid- 
path  Castle.     (See  ?>oxm&t,  Degenerate  Douglas.) 

The  Journal  has  the  following  :  "  September  18.  We  left  the  Tweed 
when  we  were  within  about  a  mile  and  a  half  or  two  miles  of  Cloven- 
ford,  where  we  were  to  lodge.  Turned  up  the  side  of  a  hill  and  went 
along  the  sheep-grounds  till  we  reached  the  spot,  —  a  single  stone 
house.  On  our  mentioning  Mr.  Scott's  name  the  woman  of  the  house 
showed  us  all  possible  civility.  Mr.  Scott  is  respected  everywhere  ;  I 
believe  that  by  favor  of  his  name  one  might  be  hospitably  entertained 
throughout  all  the  borders  of  Scotland. 

"  At  Clovenford,  being  so  near  to  Yarrow,  we  could  not  but  think  of 
the  possibility  of  going  thither,  but  came  to  the  conclusion  of  reserv- 
ing the  pleasure  for  some  future  time,  in  consequence  of  which,  after 
our  return,  William  wrote  the  poem  which  I  shall  here  transcribe." 

The  three  poems  upon  the  Yarrow,  written  in  the  metre  of  the  old 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  158-163.  369 

Yarrow  ballads,  should  be  read  as  a  trilogy,  and  the  Poet's  earlier 
and  later  styles  compared. 

In  the  blending  of  thought  with  sensation  and  emotion  Wordsworth 
resembles  Shakespeare ;  while  in  respect  of  spiritual  thrift,  as  whei 
in  the  apparent  indifference  to  the  wishes  of  his  companion  he  prefer.- 
to  abide  in  the  wealth  of  anticipation,  we  have  a  trait  which  is  dis- 
tinctly Wordsworthian. 

He  hoarded  his  joys  and  lived  upon  the  interest  which  they  paid  ir 
the  form  of  hope  and  expectation.  —  R.  H.  Hutton. 

35.   Cf.  Hamilton's  Ballad,  The  Braes  of  Yarrow^  1.  50. 

The  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  Her  Husband. 

After  leaving  Clovenford  they  proceeded  to  Gala  Water  and  on  to 
Melrose,  where  they  were  met  by  Scott,  who  conducted  them  to  the  Ab- 
bey. The  next  day  they  went  to  Jedborough,  where  Scott,  as  "  Shirra," 
was  attending  the  Assizes.  The  inns  being  full,  they  secured  lodg- 
ings in  a  private  house.  The  Journal  continues  :  "  We  were  received 
with  hearty  welcome  by  a  good  woman  who  though  above  seventy 
years  old  moved  about  as  briskly  as  if  she  were  only  seventeen.  The 
alacrity  with  which  she  guessed  at  and  strove  to  prevent  our  wants 
was  surprising.  Her  husband  was  deaf  and  infirm,  and  sat  in  a 
chair  with  scarcely  the  power  to  move  a  limb,  — an  affecting  contrast  I 
The  old  woman  said  they  had  been  a  very  hard-working  pair ;  they 
had  wrought  like  slaves  at  their  trade,— ^ her  husband  had  been  a  cur- 
rier ;  she  told  me  they  had  portioned  off  their  daughters  with  money, 
and  each  a  feather  bed. 

"  Mr.  Scott  sat  with  us  an  hour  or  two,  and  repeated  a  part  of  the 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  When  he  was  gone,  our  hostess  came  to 
see  if  we  wanted  anything,  and  to  wish  us  good-night.  William  long 
afterward  thought  it  worth  while  to  express  in  verse  the  sensations 
which  she  had  excited." 

This  poem  exhibits  Wordsworth's  habit  of  finding 

"  Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

On  Approaching  Home. 

This  was  composed  the  last  day  of  our  Tour,  between  Dalston  and 
Grasmere.  —  W.  W. 

The  next  day,  Scott  being  busy  at  the  courts,  William  Laidlaw,  who 
lived  in  the  dale  of  Yarrow,  and  who  had  been  delighted  with  some 


37°  NOTES  TO  PAGES  163-166. 

of  Wordsworth's  poems,  accompanied  them  to  the  vale  of  Jed.  Doro- 
thy says  of  him :  "  At  first  meeting  he  was  as  shy  as  any  of  our  Gras- 
mere  lads,  and  not  less  rustic."  On  the  following  day  Scott  was  glad 
to  leave  the  Judge  and  his  retinue  and  travel  with  them  through  the 
vale  of  Teviot  to  Hawick,  from  which  place  they  had  an  extensive 
view  of  the  Cheviot  Hills.  Here  they  were  obliged  to  part,  as  Scott 
had  to  return  to  his  duties.  Two  days  later  the  Journal  has  the  fol- 
lowing: "Arrived  home  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock,  where  we 
found  Mary  in  perfect  health,  Joanna  Hutchinson  with  her,  and 
little  John  asleep  in  the  clothes-basket  by  the  fire." 


1804. 

This  year  much  of  the  Prelude  was  written. 

To  the  Cuckoo. 
Composed  in  the  orchard  at  Town-End,  Grasmere,  1804.  —  W.  W. 
Of  all  Wordsworth's  illustrations  of  the  effect  of  sound  upon  the 
spiritual  nature  this  is  the  finest.  "Of  all  his  poems,"  Mr.  Hutton 
says,  "  the  Cuckoo  is  Wordsworth's  own  darling."  Early  in  life  he 
had  a  firm  assurance  that  the  life  of  the  soul  was  more  real  than  the 
external  world;  in  the  Prelude,  Bk.  ii.,  referring  to  his  school-days  he 
says  — 

"  How  shall  I  seek  the  origin  ?    Where  find 
Faith  in  the  marvellous  things  which  then  I  felt  ? 
Oft  in  these  moments  such  a  holy  calm 
Would  overspread  my  soul,  that  bodily  eyes 
Were  utterly  forgotten,  and  what  I  saw 
Appeared  like  something  in  myself,  a  dream, 
A  prospect  in  the  mind." 

It  is  this  which  makes  Wordsworth,  as  Dr.  Hudson  says,  the  most 
spiritual  and  spiritualizing  of  all  the  English  poets. 

"She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight." 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  The  germ  of  this  poem  was  four 
lines  composed  as  apart  of  the  verses  on  the  Highland  Girl.  Though 
beginning  in  this  way,  it  was  written  from  my  heart,  as  is  sufficiently 
obvious.  —  W.  W. 

That  so  trivial  an  incident  as  the  meeting  of  this  Highland  maid 
should  have  been  thus  cherished  by  the  Poet,  and  reproduced  here, 
and  in  the  Three  Collage  Girls,  vintttn  nearly  twenty  years  after,  shows 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  166-168.  3 71 

us  how  he  valued  his  experiences,  and  what  use  he  made  of  them. 
"  The  portraiture  of  woman,"  said  Coleridge,  '*  should  be  character- 
less," meaning  that  the  chief  excellence  is  a  well-balanced  nature. 

In  this  exquisite  portrait  of  womanly  beauty  we  have,  not  that  which 
Is  the  specialty  of  any  one,  but  that  which  is  the  characteristic  of  all 
true  womanly  nature.  "  Exquisite  Tightness,"  Ruskin  says,  "  distin- 
guished the  author  of  this  poem."  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that 
the  subject  of  the  poem  is  Mrs.  Wordsworth.  Allusions  are  also  made 
to  her  in  the  Prelude,  Bk.  vi.  224  ;  xii.  1 51 ;  xiv.  266 ;  and  in  O  dearer 
far  than  light  and  life  are  dear  ( 1824). 

The  Daffodils. 

Town-End,  1804.  The  two  best  lines  in  it  are  by  Mary.  —  W.  W. 
The  incident  upon  which  this  poem  was  founded  occurred  during 
a  walk  in  Patterdale.  Miss  Wordsworth's  Journal  says  :  "  When  we 
were  in  the  woods  beyond  Gowbarrow  Park  we  saw  a  few  daffodils 
close  to  the  water-side.  We  fancied  that  the  sea  had  floated  the  seeds 
ashore,  and  that  the  little  colony  had  so  sprung  up.  But  as  we  went 
along  there  were  more,  and  yet  more  ;  and  at  last  under  the  boughs 
of  the  trees  we  saw  that  there  was  a  long  belt  of  them  along  the  shore. 
...  I  never  saw  daffodils  so  beautiful  .  .  .  they  tossed  and  reeled 
and  danced  as  if  they  verily  laughed  with  the  wind  that  blew  upon 
them  over  the  lake." 

How  truly  does  Wordsworth  here  illustrate  his  doctrine  that  the 
origin  of  poetry  is  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity!  He  is  con- 
tinually opening  to  us  hidden  springs  of  joy,  and  teaching  that  life 
will  be  serene  and  bright  if  kept  pure  by  the  holy  forms  of  young 
imagination. 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 

The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodils  have  found 

Immortal  life  through  him. 

Wordsworth,  by  J.  G.  Whittier. 

2T,  22.  These  lines  were  suggested  by  Mrs.  Wordsworth.  Daffo- 
dils still  grow  abundantly  about  Ullswater. 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret. 

"Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  This  was  taken  from  the  case  of 
a  poor  widow  who  lived  in  the  town  of  Penrith.     Her  sorrow  was 


372  NOTES   TO  PAGES  168-174. 

well  known  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  to  my  sister,  and,  I  believe,  to  the 
whole  town.  She  kept  a  shop,  and  when  she  saw  a  stranger  passing 
by,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  going  out  into  the  street  to  inquire  of  him 
after  her  son.  —  W.  W. 

No  poet  could  have  drawn  this  portrait  until  he  had  lived  close  to 
the  realities  of  the  humblest  lives.  As  an  old  dalesman  has  said,  "  He 
was  a  kind  mon,  there 's  no  two  words  about  that ;  if  any  one  was 
sick  i'  the  plaace  he  wad  be  off  to  see  til  'em."  Thus  it  was  that  he 
entered  into  the  mystery  of  suffering,  and  became  — 

"  Convinced  at  heart,  how  vain 
A  correspondence  with  the  talking  world 
Proves  to  the  most." 

This  is  a  companion  picture  to  the  Story  of  Margaret  in  the  Excur- 
sion, the  purpose  of  both  being  to  awaken  in  us  a  responsive  chord 
to  the  sufferings  of  those  about  us,  —  in  a  word,  to  further  the  culture 
of  the  finer  feelings. 

"  Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  ; 
But  who,  ah  !  who  will  make  us/*?^/?" 

See  Mr.  Myers's  analysis  of  this  poem  in  Wordsworth^  English  Men 
of  Letters. 

Address  to  My  Infant  Daughter  Dora. 

Of  Wordsworth's  strong  and  deep  love  for  his  children  we  have 
frequent  evidence  in  his  poems.  For  Dora  he  seems  to  have  had  the 
most  intense  affection,  loving  her  as  his  own  soul.  The  Longest  Day, 
written  in  1817,  is  addressed  to  her.  After  the  sad  illness  of  the  Dear 
Sister,  Dora  became  his  comforter  and  stay,  and  occupied  in  his  later 
life  the  same  position  which  Dorothy  had  in  his  earlier.  So  depend- 
ent upon  her  did  he  become,  that  her  marriage  was  a  severe  trial  for 
him  ;  and  when,  in  1847,  death  came  to  her,  Sir  Henry  Taylor  says  : 
"  A  silence  as  of  death  fell  upon  him.  ...  I  believe  his  genius  never 
again  broke  into  song." 

The  Small  Celandine. 
See  pp.  1 1 5-1 19  and  notes. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  175-177.  373 

1805. 

This  year  the  Prelude  was  completed. 
Ode  to  Duty. 

This  Ode  is  on  the  model  of  Gray's  Ode  to  Adversity,  which  is  copied 
from  Horace's  Ode  to  Fortuiu.  Many  and  many  a  time  have  I  been 
twitted  by  my  wife  and  sister  for  having  forgotten  this  dedication  of 
myself  to  the  stern  law-giver.  Transgressor  indeed  I  have  been  from 
hour  to  hour,  from  day  to  day;  I  would  fain  hope,  however,  not  more 
flagrantly,  or  in  a  worse  way  than  most  of  my  tuneful  brethren.  But 
these  last  words  are  in  a  wrong  strain.  We  would  be  rigorous  to 
ourselves,  and  forbearing,  if  not  indulgent,  to  others  ;  and  if  we  make 
comparison  at  all,  it  ought  to  be  with  those  who  have  morally  ex- 
celled us.— W.  W. 

We  have  here  the  essential  and  eternal  distinction  between  the 
ethics  of  cold  abstinence  and  of  warm  sympathy.  "  Thou  shalt  not  '* 
gives  place  to  the  "  Thou  shalt ;  "  love,  not  fear,  is  the  impelling  mo- 
tive to  righteousness.  A  man's  worth  to  God  measures  his  real  worth, 
"  there  is  no  shuffling  there ;  there  offence's  gilded  hand "  cannot 
"shove  by  justice." 

In  Wordsworth's  ideal  of  human  life  the  "  genial  sense  of  youth  " 
is  strengthened  and  confirmed  by  mature  reason  ;  the  truths  of  early 
intuitions  become  the  fixed  principles  of  later  life.  Says  Dr.  Hud- 
son :  *'  Man's  ripest  wisdom  does  its  best,  when  it  draws  him  back  to 
the  purity  and  whiteness  of  the  nursery." 

Wordsworth  teaches  that  there  is  a  noble  bondage  —  a  "  manly 
dependence ; "  that  freedom  rightly  understood  is  unlimited  license 
—  to  do  good,  and  that  duty  dignifies  and  ennobles  life.  It  is  at  this 
point  that  the  influence  of  his  poetry  makes  common  cause  with  the 
spirit  of  Christianity  ;  the  work  of  the  true  poet  and  the  true  preacher 
is  one,  as  seen  in  the  history  of  the  nineteenth  century ;  men  have 
gone  to  Wordsworth  and  Newman,  Coleridge  and  Robertson,  Carlyle 
and  Maurice,  Stanley  and  Browning,  for  moral  quickening. 

I  would  rather  a  child  of  mine  should  know  and  feel  the  high,  im- 
aginative teachings  of  Wordsworth's  Ode  to  Duty,  than  any  piece  of 
uninspired  prose  morality  in  the  language.  —  Prof.  Henry  Reed. 

Cf .  Clough's  Hope  Evermore  and  Believe. 

To  a  Skylark. 
Of  all  Wordsworth's  poems  this  seems  the  most  inevitable ;  it  is  as 
spontaneous  as  the  lark's  own  song.     The  idea  that  the  life  of  Nature 


374  NOTES   TO  PAGES  177-184- 

is  one  of  enjoyment,  of  love  and  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver,  charae* 
terizes  that  spirit  of  religious  awe  in  which  the  Poet  always  walked 
with  Nature.  The  beauty  of  all  such  work  as  this  consists  in  its  deep 
poetic  rapture,  and  its  high  moral  purpose,  yet  free  from  any  taint  of 
didacticism.  He  looks  upon  Nature  with  the  eye  of  the  Psalmist  and 
sings  his  Master's  praise. 

"  Only  that  is  poetry,"  says  Emerson,  "  which  cleanses  and  mans 
me." 

See  Shelley's  To  a  Skylark. 

Fidelity. 
"  The  young  man  whose  death  gave  occasion  to  this  poem  was 
named  Charles  Gough,  and  had  come  early  in  the  spring  to  Patterdale 
for  the  sake  of  angling  While  attempting  to  cross  over  Helvellyn 
to  Grasmere,  he  slipped  from  a  steep  part  of  the  rock  where  the  ice 
was  not  thawed,  and  perished.  His  body  was  discovered  as  described 
in  this  poem.  Walter  Scott  heard  of  the  accident,  and  both  he  and  I, 
without  either  of  us  knowing  that  the  other  had  taken  up  the  subject, 
each  wrote  a  poem  in  admiration  of  the  dog's  fidelity.  His  contains 
a  most  beautiful  stanza :  — 

*'  How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou  start  ? "  —  W.  W. 

The  traveller  who  ascends  Helvellyn  and  wishes  to  go  to  Patterdale, 
by  passing  along  Striding  Edge  will  see  the  monument  erected  there 
to  commemorate  this  act. 

See  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  ed.  1871. 

Incident  Characteristic  of  a  Favorite  Dog. 

This  dog  I  knew  well.  It  belonged  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  brother. 
—  W.  W. 

Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  Same  Dog. 

The  dog  "  Music  "  died,  aged  and  blind,  by  falling  into  a  draw-well 
at  Gallow  Hill.  —  W.  W. 

"  When  to  the  Attractions  of  a  Busy  World." 
The  grove  was  a  favorite  hajmt  with  us  all,  while  we  lived  at  Town- 
End.— W.  W. 

In  the  year  1800  the  brothers  spent  eight  months  together  at  the 
Grasmere  home ;  they  had  seen  but  little  of  each  other  since  child- 
hood, and  at  this  time  the  Poet  found  in  his  brother  an  intense  and 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  184-188.  375 

delicate  appreciation  of  his  poetry.  In  the  Fir  Grove,  now  called 
John^s  Grove,  they  spent  many  hours  discussing  what  would  be  the 
future  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  ;  John  Wordsworth  confidently  believed 
that  they  would  in  time  become  appreciated,  and  hence  he  determined 
to  assist  his  brother  in  all  possible  ways.  As  captain  of  a  merchant 
vessel  he  had  acquired  some  means,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the 
time  when  he  could  settle  at  Grasmere,  and  enjoy  the  home  in  com- 
pany with  Dorothy  and  William. 

The  fir-grove  is  not  far  from  the  Wishing-Gate  on  the  road  over 
White  Moss  Common  toward  Rydal.  It  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing of  the  localities  connected  with  the  Poet  and  his  brother. 

Of.  Prelude,  vii.  43. 

Stanzas  on  Peele  Castle. 

When  in  September,  1800,  John  left  Grasmere,  the  brother  and  sister 
accompanied  him  as  far  as  Grisedale  Tarn,  on  the  way  to  Patterdale. 
They  then  little  thought  it  was  to  be  his  farewell  to  Grasmere,  but  so 
it  proved.  Soon  he  was  appointed  captain  of  the  "  Abergavenny,"  an 
East  Indiaman;  and  on  Feb.  5,  1805,  when  setting  sail  from  Ports- 
mouth, through  the  incompetence  of  the  pilot,  she  struck  the  reefs  of 
the  Bill  of  Portland,  and  was  lost.     Wordsworth  says :  — 

"A  few  minutes  before  the  ship  went  down  my  brother  was  seen 
talking  to  the  first  mate  with  apparent  cheerfulness  ;  he  was  standing 
at  a  point  where  he  could  overlook  the  whole  ship  the  moment  she 
went  down,  —  dying,  as  he  had  lived,  in  the  very  place  and  point  where 
his  duty  called  him." 

The  Poet  soon  after  composed  the  following  verses  near  the  parting 
place  at  the  foot  of  Grisedale  Tarn  :  — 

"  The  Sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo  ! 
That  instant,  startled  by  the  shock, 
The  Buzzard  mounted  from  the  rock 
Deliberate  and  slow : 
Lord  of  the  air,  he  took  his  flight ; 
Oh !  could  he  on  that  woeful  night 
Have  lent  his  wing,  my  Brother  dear, 
For  one  poor  moment's  space  to  Thee, 
And  all  who  struggled  with  the  Sea, 
When  safety  was  so  near !  10 

"  Thus  in  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
I  spoke  (but  let  that  pang  be  still) 
When  rising  from  the  rock  at  will, 
I  saw  the  Bird  depart. 


376  NOTES  TO  PAGES  18S-193. 

And  let  me  calmly  bless  the  Power 
That  meets  me  in  this  unknown  Flower, 
Affecting  type  of  him  I  mourn ! 
With  calmness  suffer  and  believe, 
And  grieve,  and  know  that  I  must  grieve, 
Not  cheerless,  though  forlorn. 

"  Here  did  we  stop ;  and  here  looked  round 
While  each  into  himself  descends, 
For  that  last  thought  of  parting  Friends 
That  is  not  to  be  found. 
Hidden  was  Grasmere  Vale  from  sight, 
Our  home  and  his,  his  heart's  delight. 
His  quiet  heart's  selected  home. 
But  time  before  him  melts  away. 
And  he  hath  feeling  of  a  day 
Of  blessedness  to  come. 

"  Full  soon  in  sorrow  did  I  weep, 
Taught  that  the  mutual  hope  was  dust. 
In  sorrow,  but  for  higher  trust, 
How  miserably  deep ! 
All  vanished  in  a  single  word, 
A  breath,  a  sound,  and  scarcely  heard ; 
Sea  —  Ship  —  drowned  —  Shipwreck  —  so  it  came, 
The  meek,  the  brave,  the  good,  was  gone ; 
He  who  had  been  our  living  John 
Was  nothing  but  a  name. 

"  That  was  indeed  a  parting !  oh. 
Glad  am  I,  glad  that  it  is  past ; 
For  there  were  some  on  whom  it  cast 
Unutterable  woe. 

But  they  as  well  as  I  have  gains;  — 
From  many  a  humble  source,  to  pains 
Like  these,  there  comes  a  mild  release ; 
Even  here  I  feel  it,  even  this  Plant 
Is  in  its  beauty  ministrant 
To  comfort  and  to  peace. 

**  He  would  have  loved  thy  modest  grace, 
Meek  Flower  !    To  Him  I  would  have  said, 
*  It  grows  upon  its  native  bed 
Beside  our  Parting-place ; 
There,  cleaving  to  the  ground  it  lies. 
With  multitude  of  purple  eyes, 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  188-193.  377 

Spangling  a  cushion  green  like  moss ; 

But  we  will  see  it,  joyful  tide  1 

Some  day,  to  see  it  in  its  pride, 

The  mountain  will  we  cross.'  «• 

"  —  Brother  and  friend,  if  verse  of  mine 
Have  power  to  make  thy  virtues  known, 
Here  let  a  Monumental  Stone 
Stand  —  sacred  as  a  Shrine ; 
And  to  the  few  who  pass  this  way. 
Traveller  or  Shepherd,  let  it  say, 
Long  as  these  mighty  rocks  endure,  — 
Oh,  do  not  thou  too  fondly  brood, 
Although  deserving  of  all  good, 
On  any  earthly  hope,  however  pure ! "  TO 

In  execution  of  the  Poet's  wish,  — 

"  Here  let  a  Monumental  Stone 
Stand  —  sacred  as  a  Shrine,"  — 

the  Wordsworth  Society  has  caused  lines  21-24,  61-64  of  this  poem  to 
be  engr^^red  upon  a  stone  near  the  tarn. 

In  18&7  I  found  the  Meek  Flower,  Moss  Campion,  still  growing 
"  upon  its  native  bed."     Cf.  Prelude,  xiv.  414. 

Wordsworth  in  the  letter  from  which  I  have  quoted  above  con- 
tinues :  "  I  never  wrote  a  line  without  the  thought  of  giving  him  pleas- 
ure; my  writings  were  his  delight,  and  one  of  the  chief  solaces  of  his 
long  voyages.  But  let  me  stop.  I  will  not  be  cast  down ;  were  it  only 
for  his  sake  I  will  not  be  dejected." 

Some  have  found,  or  think  they  have  found,  in  this  poem  an  illus- 
tration oi  pathetic  fallacy,  as  Ruskin  calls  it,  —  the  imposition  upon 
Nature  of  the  Poet's  own  feeling.  Let  us  see  ;  in  the  first  part  of  the 
poem  the  Poet  sees  the  Sea  at  rest,  not  as  a  reflection  of  his  own  calm» 
but  because  he  has  been  familiar  with  it,  not  in  storm  but  in  calm  ;  he 
knows  its  nature  as  manifested  in  repose,  and  hence  cannot  appreci- 
ate the  work  of  art  which  is  at  variance  with  his  strongest  impression. 
In  the  closing  part  of  the  poem,  he  does  not  violate  his  philosophy, 
for  now  having  experienced  what  the  storm  at  sea  can  do,  the  impres- 
sion of  calm  is  replaced  by  that  of  storm,  and  hence  he  can  supply 
what  before  was  wanting,  and  appreciate  the  artist's  work.  The 
truth  which  is  here  brought  out  is  one  which  lies  at  the  foundation 
of  all  creation,  as  well  as  of  all  criticism — sympathy.  This  refining 
influence  of  sorrow  helps  us  to  the  solution  of  one  of  the  deepest 
problems  of  human  existence. 


378  NOTES   TO  PAGES  188-193. 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Mr.  Myers,  "  in  computing  the  fortune  of  any  one 
whom  we  hold  dear,  it  may  seem  more  needful  to  inquire,  not  whether 
he  has  had  enough  of  joy,  but  whether  he  has  had  enough  of  sorrow/' 

Peele  Castle  is  on  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  was  once  a  residence  oi 
the  Princes  of  Mona. 

One  of  the  two  pictures  of  "  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm  "  is  now  in  the 
gallery  of  Sir  George  Beaumont  at  Coleorton  Hall.  —  Professor 
Knight. 

See  the  succeeding  poem. 

To  A  Young  Lady. 

This  poem  was  addressed  to  Dorothy  Wordsworth.  Also  the  fol- 
lowing, which  was  written  at  the  same  time :  — 

Louisa.— After  accompanying  her  on  a  Mountain  Excursion. 

I  met  Louisa  in  the  shade, 

And  having  seen  that  lovely  maid, 

Why  should  I  fear  to  say 

That  nymph-like,  she  is  fleet  and  strong, 

And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along 

Like  rivulets  in  May  ? 

She  loves  her  fire,  her  cottage  home ; 
Yet  o'er  the  moorland  will  she  roam 
In  weather  rough  and  bleak  ; 
And  when  against  the  wind  she  strains, 
Oh !  might  I  kiss  the  mountain  rains 
That  sparkle  on  her  cheek 

Take  all  that 's  mine  "  beneath  the  moon," 

If  I  with  her  but  half  a  noon 

May  sit  beneath  the  walls 

Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook, 

When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 

To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 

The  following  is  from  a  letter  by  Dorothy :  — 

"  He  was  never  tired  of  comforting  his  sister ;  he  never  left  her  in 
anger;  he  always  met  her  with  joy;  he  preferred  her  society  to  every 
other  pleasure." 

See  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  by  Edmund  Lee. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  194-198.  379 

1806. 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior. 

Wordsworth's  experience  in  connection  with  the  French  Revolution 
made  him  a  close  observer  of  the  effect  of  war  upon  character.  In 
the  ninth  book  of  the  Prelude  we  have  his  description  of  the  patriot 
Beaupuis ;  while  in  the  Sonnets  to  Liberty  we  have  a  gallery  of  illustri- 
ous portraits.  Wordsworth's  poetry  is  a  great  store-house  of  political 
and  patriotic  eloquence,  for  although  the  homely  Poet  was  as  "  retired 
as5  noontide  dew"  he  had  a  nature  which  was  capable  of  manifesting  a 
Roman  fortitude.  The  devotion  which  he  paid  to  his  ideal,  in  morals, 
in  poetry,  and  in  politics,  finds  few  parallels. 

The  death  of  Nelson,  at  the  moment  of  victory,  touched  the  whole 
English  nation.  Occurring  as  it  did  so  soon  after  the  death  of  the 
Poet's  brother,  in  giving  voice  to  his  emotion  he  weaves  together  their 
memories  in  a  eulogy  which  for  simplicity  and  power  has  no  equal  in 
the  language. 

In  this  poem  we  have  the  purest  and  noblest  manifestation  of  that 
faith  in  God  and  Immortality  which  characterized  Wordsworth  as  a 
man  and  a  poet.  It  is  this  truth,  revealed  not  so  much  to  the  eye  of 
reason,  as  to  the  eye  of  the  soul,  which  renders  the  life  of  men  and 
of  nations  divine. 

"  Perhaps  he  alone,"  says  Mr.  Hutton,  "  of  all  the  great  men  of  that 
day,  had  seen  the  light  of  the  countenance  of  God  shining  clear  in  the 
face  of  Duty." 

"  Other  poetry  becomes  trifling,"  says  Leslie  ^Stephen,  "  when  we 
are  making  our  inevitable  passages  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
of  Death." 

See  Whittier's  poem  on  the  Washington  Centennial,  April  30,  1889. 

Stray  Pleasures. 

Suggested  on  the  Thames,  by  the  sight  of  one  of  those  floating  mills 
that  used  to  be  seen  there.  This  I  noticed  on  the  Surrey  side  be- 
tween Somerset  House  and  Blackfriar's  Bridge.  Charles  Lamb  was 
with  me  at  the  time ;  and  I  thought  it  remarkable  that  I  should  have 
to  point  out  to  him^  an  idolatrous  Londoner,  a  sight  so  interesting  as 
the  happy  group  dancing  on  the  platform.  — W.  W. 

"Yes,  it  was  the  Mountain  Echo." 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  The  echo  came  from  Nab-Scar, 
when  I  was  walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  Rydal  Mere.     I  will  here 


380  NOTES   TO  PAGES  198-203. 

mention  for  my  dear  sister's  sake,  that,  while  she  was  sitting  alone 
one  day  high  up  on  this  part  of  Loughrigg  Fell,  she  was  so  affected  by 
the  voice  of  the  Cuckoo  heard  from  the  crags  at  some  distance  that 
she  could  not  suppress  a  wish  to  have  a  stone  inscribed  with  her  name 
among  the  rocks  from  which  the  sound  proceeded.  On  my  return 
from  my  walk  I  recited  these  verses  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth.  —  W.  W. 

Often  while  on  the  Fells  have  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Cuckoo  from 
across  Rydal  Mere.  The  terrace  along  the  side  of  Loughrigg  is  one 
of  the  favorite  walks.  No  stone  is  to  be  found  bearing  Dorothy's 
name,  and  it  is  well  that  it  is  safe  from  the  hand  of  the  Philistine  who 
has  marred  so  many  of  these  memorials.  The  relative  position  of  the 
mountains  in  the  district  renders  the  production  of  echoes  a  common 
one.  To  one  rowing  upon  Grasmere  or  Rydal  Lake  the  voice  is  re- 
peated with  great  variety ;  while  the  echoes  from  the  blasting  at  the 
quarries  remind  one  of  the  cannonading  effect  of  thunder  in  our  own 
Catskills. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Fox. 

The  fact  that  Fox  had  sympathized  with  Wordsworth  in  the  posi- 
tion which  he  took  in  regard  to  the  principles  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, doubtless  increased  the  Poet's  sadness  at  his  death. 

The  description  in  the  first  stanza  is  extremely  accurate,  for  in  any 
of  the  vales  of  the  district  the  effect  of  a  sudden  shower  even,  is  such 
as  to  produce  a  unison  of  voices  from  the  becks,  while  the  position 
of  the  mountains  causes  the  sounds  to  be  reverberated,  as  mentioned 
in  a  previous  note. 

See  Scott's  Marmion,  Introduction  to  Canto  I.  126-165. 

Power  of.  Music. 

Taken  from  life.  —  W.  W. 

In  the  seventh  book  of  the  Prelude  the  Poet  gives  us  a  view  of 
London  as  it  appeared  to  him  in  1791.  In  the  spring  of  1806  he  spent 
two  months  in  the  same  city  ;  and  if  this  poem  was  suggested  by  scenes 
in  this  visit  we  see  that  he  still  carried  with  him  the  "watchful  eye." 
We  have  in  this  poem  a  refutation  of  the  oft-repeated  assertion  that 
Wordsworth  had  no  appreciation  of  humor.  See  Reminiscences  of 
Wordsworth,  in  volume  second  of  Essays  on  Poetry,  by  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality. 
Two  years,  the  Poet  tells  us,  elapsed  between  the  writing  of  the  first 
four  stanzas  and  the  remainder  of  the  poem;  "and,"  he  continues, 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  203-210.  381 

•*  nothing  was  more  difficult  for  me  in  childhood  than  to  admit  the 
notion  of  death  as  a  state  applicable  to  my  own  being.  But  it  was 
not  so  much  from  feelings  of  animal  vivacity  that  my  difficulty  came, 
as  from  a  sense  of  the  indomitableness  of  the  spirit  within  me.  I  was 
often  unable  to  think  of  external  things  as  having  external  existence. 
Many  times  while  going  to  school  I  have  grasped  at  a  wall  or  tree  to 
recall  myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the  reality.  In  later  pe- 
riods of  my  life  I  have  deplored,  as  we  have  all  reason  to  do,  the  sub- 
jugation of  an  opposite  character."  In  regard  to  the  belief  in  a  prior 
state  of  existence,  he  says  :  "  I  think  it  right  to  protest  against  a  con- 
clusion which  has  given  pain  to  some  good  and  pious  persons,  that  I 
meant  to  inculcate  such  a  belief.  It  is  far  too  shadowy  a  notion  to 
be  recommended  to  faith,  as  more  than  an  element  in  our  instincts  of 
immortality.  A  pre-existent  state  has  entered  into  the  popular  creeds 
of  many  nations,  and  it  is  known  as  an  ingredient  in  Platonic  philoso- 
phy. .  .  .  When  I  was  impelled  to  write  this  poem  I  took  hold  of  the 
notion  of  pre-existence  as  having  sufficient  foundation  in  humanity 
for  authorizing  me  to  make  for  my  purpose  the  best  use  of  it  I  could 
as  a  poet." 

To  those  familiar  with  Wordsworth's  work  before  this  date,  the 
philosophy  of  this  Ode  will  seem  what  in  truth  it  is,  —  "  the  breath  and 
finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge."  The  two  moods  in  which  the  Poet  is 
represented  are  but  a  reflection  of  what  we  have  so  often  seen  in  his 
poetry,  —  the  relation  of  the  soul  to  sense,  and  the  possibility  that 
the  former  may  forget  its  celestial  birth.  The  subject  of  the  poem  — 
the  origin,  development,  and  destiny  of  the  human  soul  —  has  seldom 
been  absent  from  his  poetry,  while  in  treatment  we  find  the  same 
gathering  from  his  former  methods.  The  total  effect  is  perhaps  the 
grandest  in  the  literature  of  the  century,  so  that  the  term  "  in- 
spired "  is  not  forced  when  applied  to  the  Poet  who  could  produce 
such  a  result. 

Emerson  says :  "  I  am  a  better  believer,  and  all  serious  souls  are 
better  believers,  in  immortality  than  we  can  give  grounds  for.  The 
real  evidence  is  too  subtle,  or  is  higher  than  we  can  write  down  in 
propositions,  and  therefore  Wordsworth's  Ode  is  the  best  modern 
essay  on  the  subject." 

The  chief  value  of  the  poem  arises  from  the  fact  that  it  never  de- 
scends to  the  plane  of  mere  argument;  it  ever  keeps  on  the  high 
ground  of  the  essential  identity  of  our  childish  instincts  and  our  en- 
lightened reason.  The  deepest  truths  of  the  soul  cannot  be  argued, 
they  must  be  lived.     In  the  first  four  stanzas  we  have  the  ^xperi- 


382  NOTES  TO  PAGES  210-211. 

ence  of  our  common  humanity.  Doomed  as  we  are  to  go  in  company 
with  fear  and  sorrow,  —  "  miserable  train,"  —  how  are  we  to  prevent 
ourselves  from  "wronging "  the  joy  of  the  life  that  is  about  us ?  The 
Poet,  in  the  next  four  stanzas,  answers  the  question  by  reviewing  the 
history  of  the  soul,  and  tracing  the  steps  by  which  it  reached  that 
stage.  He  finds  that  it  is  because  the  soul  has  become  centred  in 
the  seen  and  the  temporal,  and  has  thus  lost  its  glory  and  its  beauty ; 
it  has  wellnigh  destroyed  its  spiritual  vision.  In  the  concluding 
stanzas  he  shows  us  that  this  may  be  regained,  and  that  the  melan- 
choly fear  may  be  subdued  by  a  return  to  those  simple  ways  in  which 
our  childhood  walked.  We  must  become  as  little  children  in  this  life 
of  the  soul,  and  by  blending  early  intuition  and  mature  reason  we 
shall  be  able  to  see  into  the  life  of  things.  Thus  it  is  that  the  Poet 
teaches  better  science  than  the  Scientist,  better  philosophy  than  the 
Philosopher,  and  better  religion  than  the  Priest.  Every  line  of  the 
poem  is  worthy  of  the  closest  study. 

See  Browning's  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra ;   Theism  of  Wordsworth^  by  Pro* 
fe«sor  Veitch,  in  Wordsworth  Society  Transactions^  viii. 


1807. 

"O  Nightingale!  thou  surely  art—" 

Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  (Mrs.  W.  says  in  a  note  —  "At 
Coleorton.") 

In  1803  Wordsworth's  friendship  for  Sir  George  Beaumont,  of  Cole- 
orton Hill,  Leicestershire,  began.  Beaumont  was  a  descendant  of  the 
dramatist  of  that  name,  and  was  distinguished  for  his  ability  as  an 
artist.  This  friendship  was  advantageous  for  both  the  painter  and  the 
poet.  Wordsworth's  quick  discernment  of  the  beauty  of  Nature  made 
him  a  critic  of  the  art  of  landscape  gardening,  and  when  Beaumont 
was  laying  out  the  grounds  of  Coleorton  Hall  the  Poet  was  of  great 
assistance  to  him. 

In  1806  the  Wordsworths  went  to  Coleorton  to  spend  the  winter, 
and  it  is  probable  that  this  poem  was  written  there. 

The  following  is  from  an  inscription  written  by  Wordsworth  and 
engraved  on  a  stone  in  the  grounds  at  Coleorton :  — 

"  The  embowering  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the  pine 
Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign, 
If  but  the  Cedar  thrive  that  near  them  stands, 
Planted  by  Beaumont's  and  by  Wordsworth's  hands. 


NOTES  TO  PAGE  211.  383 

One  wooed  the  silent  art  with  studious  pains  ; 
These  groves  have  heard  the  other's  pensive  strains ; 
Devoted  thus  their  spirits  did  unite 
By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight." 

Wordsworth  was  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  home  ;  his  interests 
clustered  around  the  cottage  hearth. 

"  To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking  hearts  " 
was  his  delight.  Into  the  region  of  romance  he  seldom  ventured, 
preferring  to  deal  with  "  Nature's  unambitious  underwood."  Can  it 
be  that  in  the  contrast  which  he  here  draws  between  the  nightingale 
and  the  stock-dove  he  intends  to  indicate  the  difference  between  his 
sphere  and  that  of  some  other  poets } 

See  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale.  For  details  in  regard  to  Coleor- 
ton,  see  Memories  of  Coleorton,  Knight. 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle. 

This  poem  was  composed  at  Coleorton  while  I  was  walking  to 
and  fro  along  the  path  which  led  from  Sir  George  Beaumont's  farm- 
house, where  we  resided,  to  the  Hall,  which  was  building  at  that 
time.  — W.  W. 

The  Saxon  kingdom  of  Deira  (Northumberland)  included  what  is 
now  Lancashire,  Yorkshire,  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  and  Durham. 
The  division  into  counties  was  made  by  Egbert  (825)  when  he  ap- 
pointed for  each  a  Comes  to  rule  in  temporal,  and  a  Bishop  to  rule  in 
spiritual,  things.  Lonkeshire  was  named  from  Loncaster,  the  castle 
on  the  Lone.  Alfred  had  allowed  the  Danes  to  settle  in  these  regions, 
and  they  were  a  source  of  great  trouble  until  William  subdued  them. 
He  built  the  stronghold,  Lancaster  Castle,  and  appointed  Ivo  Tail- 
bois,  of  the  house  of  Anjou,  Baron  of  Kendal.  This  is  the  beginning 
of  the  House  of  Lancaster. 

The  history  of  WestW(?rdand  —  the  country  of  the  Western  lakes  — 
is  closely  connected  with  that  long  and  illustrious  line  which  began  in 
Roger  de  Clifford.  The  eighth  in  the  line  was  John  Lord  Clifford, 
who  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Lancastrians.  After  the  battle  of 
Wakefield  he  slew  the  son  of  the  Duke  of  York,  in  revenge  for  the 
death  of  his  father  at  the  hands  of  the  Yorkists,  and  was  himself 
slain  at  Ferrybridge  the  day  before  the  battle  of  Towton  (1461).  The 
family  were  deprived  of  their  estates,  and  Henry,  the  subject  of  the 
poem,  was  obliged  to  live  in  concealment  for  twenty-four  years,  dur- 
ing which  time  he  lived  the  life  of  a  shepherd.  After  the  battle  of 
Bosworth   Field  the   Shepherd  Lord  was  restored  to  his  own  by 


384  NOTES  TO  PAGES  21 1-2 14. 

Henry  VII.  He  spent  his  time  in  peaceful  pursuits  until  I5i3,when, 
at  the  age  of  sixty,  he  was  appointed  to  a  command  over  the  army 
which  fought  at  Flodden.  He  died  at  the  age  of  seventy,  and  was 
buried  at  Bolton  Priory. 

1-4.  Brougham  Castle  is  situated  on  the  river  Emont,  about  one 
mile  and  a  half  from  Penrith.  It  is  now  in  ruins.  During  the  last 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  castle  was  neglected,  and  it  suffered 
much  as  Furness  Abbey  has  suffered,  —  the  stone  of  which  has  been 
used  for  dwellings.  "  Brave  and  bonny "  Cumberland  during  the 
Border  Wars  and  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  erected  castle  after  castle, 
many  rums  of  which  now  stand,  grim  historians  of  the  political  life 
of  those  days.     See  Prelude^  vi.  190-220. 

7.    From  first  battle  of  St.  Albans,  1455,  to  battle  of  Bosworth, 

1485. 

13.  The  marriage  of  Henry  VII.  with  Elizabeth  of  York. 

27.  From  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field,  by  Sir  John  Beaumont,  and  al- 
ludes  to  the  many  murders  committed  by  Richard  III. 

36.  Castle  in  Yorkshire  comprised  in  the  estates  of  the  Cliffords, 
deserted  while  the  Peasant  Lord  was  attainted.  When  the  disso- 
lution of  the  Monasteries  was  followed  by  insurrection  the  dis- 
possessed Heads  were  finally  repulsed  at  Skipton  by  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland. 

40.  Another  of  the  castles  of  the  Cliffords,  near  the  source  of 
the  river  Eden,  Cumberland,  destroyed  in  1685.  Its  origin  is  ascribed 
to  Uther  Pendragon,  the  mighty  Briton  who  withstood  so  long  the 
ravages  of  the  ruthless  Saxons.  Tradition  says  he  tried  to  alter  the 
course  of  the  river  to  better  fortify  this  castle,  but  failed. 

*'  Let  Uther  Pendragon  do  what  he  can, 
The  river  Eden  will  run  as  it  ran." 

44,  45.  Brough  Castle,  on  the  Hillbeck  stream,  which  flows  into  the 
Eden,  and  is  probably  older  than  the  Norman  Conquest. 

46,  47.   Appleby  Castle,  a  ruin  since  1565. 

54.  The  mother  of  Henry  Lord  Clifford  was  Margaret,  daughter  of 
Lord  Vesci. 

73.   Carrock-fell,  not  far  from  Castle  Sowerby,  Cumberland. 

89-92.  The  vale  of  Mosedale  is  north  of  Blencathara  (Saddleback), 
a  mountain  not  far  from  Keswick.  Glenderamakin  rises  on  the  high 
ground  not  far  from  Saddleback. 

94-100.  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  concealed  the  boy  on  his  estates  in 
Cumberland. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  214-217.  385 

In  the  Waggoner  we  have  :  — 

"  And  see  beyond  that  hamlet  small 
The  ruined  towers  of  Threlkeld  Hall. 
There  at  Blencathara's  rugged  feet, 
Sir  Lancelot  gave  a  safe  retreat 
To  noble  Clifford." 

The  hall  is  now  a  ruin,  save  one  portion  used  as  a  farmhouse. 

123.  It  was  a  belief,  in  the  olden  time,  that  there  were  two  im- 
mortal fish  in  this  tarn.     It  is  not  far  from  Blencathara. 

142-145.  These  lines  have  a  genuine  epic  ring,  and  reflect  the  life 
of  the  time  —  a  time  filled  with  the  prejudices,  the  passions,  and  the 
pomp  of  war.  The  Northern  Heights  seem  to  have  contributed  their 
full  share  toward  all  these.  In  1584  we  find  that  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland  furnished  "  Eight  thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty 
horsemen,  archers,  and  billmen."  The  Kendal  men  are  mentioned 
with  honor  at  the  battle  of  Flodden  — 

"  There  are  the  bows  of  Kentdale  bold 
Who  fierce  will  fight  and  never  flee." 

Wordsworth's  Muse  loves  to  range 

"  Where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwells," 

and  seldom  does  she  lead  him  into  the  fields  of  chivalry  and  romance. 
In  but  two  instances  do  we  have  subjects  which  would  permit  of  the 
full  epic  treatment. 

In  this  poem  he  does  not  dwell,  as  Scott  would  have  done,  upon  the 
mustering  of  the  forces,  the  description  of  the  leaders,  the  shock  of 
battle,  and  the  deeds  of  prowess,  but  upon  those  qualities  of  the  Shep. 
herd  Lord  which  distinguish  him  as  a  man  and  by  which  he  was  en- 
deared to  all.  The  treatment  is  subjective  rather  than  objective,  and 
in  its  rapid  movement  from  t\it  jubilate  at  the  opening,  through  the 
various  phases  of  family  fortune,  to  the  slowly  moving,  meditative 
stanzas  at  the  close,  the  poem  is  representative  of  the  variety  of  form 
and  feeling  of  which  Wordsworth  was  master.  This  is,  I  take  it, 
what  Coleridge  means  when  he  says :  — 

"  From  no  contemporary  writer  could  so  many  lines  be  quoted,  with- 
out reference  to  the  poem  in  which  they  are  to  be  found,  for  their  own 
independent  weight  and  beauty." 

The  Force  of  Prayer. 

Written  as  an  appendage  to  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  and  in  the 
advertisement  to  that  poem  Wordsworth  says  that  in  1807  he  visited 

.     25 


386  NOTES  TO  PAGES  217-220. 

for  the  first  time  the  beautiful  country  that  surrounds  Bolton  Priory  in 
Yorkshire.  It  was  with  the  Canons  of  Bolton  that  the  good  Lord  Clif- 
ford is  said  to  have  followed  the  pursuit  of  astronomy  and  alchemy. 
Bolton  Priory  is  situated  in  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  Wharf. 
About  half  a  mile  above  the  Priory  the  valley  narrows  and  the  jut- 
ting rocks  almost  meet  above  the  river.  This  chasm  is  called  the  Strid. 
The  teaching  of  this  poem  is  to  be  found  expanded  in  the  Excursion : 
"  The  darts  of  anguish^;*;  not  where  the  seat 

Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly  fortified 

By  acquiescence  in  the  Will  supreme 

For  time  and  for  eternity." 

Of  this  poem  Lamb  says :  — 

"  Young  Romilly  is  divine  ;  the  reasons  of  the  mother's  grief  being 
remediless.  I  never  saw  parental  love  carried  up  so  high,  towering 
above  the  other  loves.  Shakespeare  had  done  something  for  the  filial 
in  Cordelia,  and  by  implication  for  the  fatherly  too,  in  Lear's  resent- 
ment ;  he  left  it  for  you  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  maternal  grief." 

1814. 

Most  of  the  poems  written  between  1807  and  18 14  were  sonnets,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  Excursion  was  being  written.  In  1808,  Dove  Cot- 
tage being  too  small  for  the  family,  they  removed  to  Allan  Bank,  on  the 
western  side  of  the  lake,  where  they  lived  for  three  years  ;  then  they 
moved  to  the  Parsonage  near  the  Church.  In  1813  Rydal  Mount  be- 
came their  home. 

Laodamia. 

1814  marks  an  era  in  the  poetical  life  of  Wordsworth.  In  the 
/)reparation  of  his  eldest  son  for  the  University,  he  was  drawn  more 
closely  to  the  classic  writers,  especially  Virgil,  and  this  Country-loving 
Poet  had  new  delights  for  him.,  The  picture  in  the  sixth  ^neid  sug- 
gested to  him  this  loftiest  and  most  pathetic  of  his  poems. 

The  hero  and  heroine  are  taken  from  Homer  and  Ovid,  and  the 
whole  tone  of  the  poem  is  the  finest  and  richest  expression  of  classic 
beauty  and  finish.  It  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  severe  ruggedness 
of  Michael,  and  the  magical  smoothness  of  the  Solitary  Reaper,  yet  it 
is  like  them  in  the  perfect  harmony  of  theme  and  the  expression. 
Thus  it  may  be  said  that  the  Poet  had  as  many  styles  as  the  nature 
of  his  subjects  required. 

Sacrifice  is  the  crowning  attribute  of  that  "blessed  love"  which 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  220-231.  387 

had  always  been  the  subject  of  his  song,  and  this  poem  is  the  amplest 
of  his  utterances  upon  this  divine  quality  in  man.  It  is  the  favorite 
of  the  critics.  Hazlitt  wrote :  "  It  breathes  the  pure  spirit  of  the 
finest  fragments  of  antiquity.  It  is  a  poem  that  might  be  read  aloud 
in  Elysium,  and  the  spirits  of  departed  heroes  and  sages  would  gather 
round  to  listen  to  it."  Landor  pronounced  Laodamia  to  be  "  a  com- 
position such  as  Sophocles  might  have  exulted  to  own." 

Aubrey  de  Vere  says :  "  After  I  had  read  Laodamia  (which  was 
his  introduction  to  Wordsworth),  some  strong  calm  hand  seemed  to 
have  been  laid  on  my  head ;  a  new  world  opened  itself  out.  I  was 
translated  into  another  planet  of  song." 

Dion. 

Another  product  of  this  revival  of  interest  in  the  classics  was  Dion. 
In  language  as  majestic  as  it  is  transparent  he  weaves  a  wreath  for 
the  dead  philosopher,  and  teaches  that  the  only  real  failure  for  a  man 
is  the  retreat  from  his  high  ideals.  This  is  the  lesson  of  Qidipus,  of 
Hamlet,  and  of  Brutus  — the  failure  of  the  idealist  in  a  positive  world. 
For  those  who  measure  success  by  our  present  standards  of  material- 
ism such  lives  present  but  little  of  interest,  while  for  those  who  be- 
lieve that  nothing  but  real  worth  can  succeed  in  the  end,  they  bring 
consolation  and  strength ;  for  — 

"  Right  is  right,  since  God  is  God, 
And  Right  the  day  must  win." 

Lamb  wrote  :  "  The  story  of  Dion  is  divine  —  the  genius  of  Plato  fall- 
ing on  him  like  moonlight,  the  finest  thing  ever  expressed." 
See  Plutarch. 

Composed  at  Cora  Linn.i 

On  the  i8th  of  July,  1814,  Wordsworth,  in  company  with  his  wife 
and  Sara  Hutchinson,  left  Rydal  for  a  tour  in  Scotland.  Only  four 
poems  were  the  product  of  this  visit. 

In  the  first  book  of  the  Prelude,  Wordsworth  tells  us  that  "when  an 
earnest  longing  rose  to  brace  himself  to  some  determined  aim,"  among 
the  various  subjects  which  suggested  themselves  was  the  following ; 

"  How  Wallace  died  for  Scotland;  left  the  name 
Of  Wallace,  to  be  found,  like  a  wild  flower, 
All  over  his  dear  country  ;  left  the  deeds 

1   Water-fall. 


388  NOTES   TO  PAGES  231-236. 

Of  Wallace,  like  a  family  of  Ghosts 

To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks.** 

See  Burns's  Scots  wha  hae  wf  Wallace  Bled. 
6.   The  Castle  of  Corra,  near  the  water-fall. 

Yarrow  Visited. 

In  his  first  visit  to  Scotland  Wordsworth  was  fortunate  in  having 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Walter  Scott ;  now  he  meets  him  whom 
Scott,  while  gathering  the  Border  Minstrelsy,  had  discovered  on  the 
hills  of  Ettrick  —  James  Hogg.  Having  spent  the  night  at  Traquair, 
on  the  following  morning  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  met  them  and  became 
their  guide  to  the  "  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow."  They  were  now  in  the 
one  spot  of  all  that  "singing  country  "  toward  which  they  had  looked 
with  the  fondest  anticipation.  The  spontaneous  interrogation,  min- 
gled with  surprise  and  perhaps  disappointment,  bursts  forth,  — 
**  And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ? " 

There  is  no  place  in  the  Highlands  so  rich  in  tender  associations 
and  natural  beauty  as  the  vale  of  Yarrow.  It  has  been  the  subject  of 
those  nameless  singers  whose  ballads  were  first  caught  and  given  to 
the  world  by  Scott  in  his  Border  Minstrelsy.  One  who  visits  this 
scene  should  be  familiar  with  such  ballads  as  The  Douglas  Tragedy, 
The  Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow,  Lament  of  the  Border  H'idow,  The  Song 
of  Outlaw  Murray,  and  Auld  Maitland,  all  of  which  belong  to  Yar- 
row and  Ettrick.  On  an  early  morning  in  August,  1887,  I  went  alone 
on  my  first  visit  to  these  vales.  The  sun  was  just  beginning  to  scatter 
the  clothing  of  mist  and  reveal  the  braes  and  bens  with  their  grace- 
ful flowing  outline,  the  clear  streams  winding  through  the  fern  and 
heather,  the  mouldering  towers  of  Dryhope,  where  the  Border  chief- 
tains came  to  woo  the  lovely  Mary  Scott,  the  Flower  of  Yarrow,  and 
clear  St.  Mary's  Loch  visibly  delighted  with  her  exquisite  setting  of 
emerald  and  purple.     Then  it  was  that  I  appreciated  these  lines  — 

"  Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 
A  softness  still  and  holy  "  — 

such  was  the  pensive  loveliness  of  the  scene. 

In  purity,  sweetness,  and  pathos ;  in  inimitable  ease  and  grace  of 
metre  ;  in  intense  realization  of  the  secret  of  Nature,  —  these  Yarrow 
poems  are  simply  perfect.  It  is  no  wonder  that  with  such  weapons 
Wordsworth  could  put  to  flight  the  literary  gladiators  who  could  not 
distinguish  poetry  from  verse. 

Cf.  Introduction  to  Canto  i.  of  Scott's  Marmion^  1-36. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  236-240.  389 

1816. 

To . 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  The  lady  was  Miss  Blackett,  then  resid- 
ing with  Mr.  Montagu  Burgoyne  at  Fox-Ghyll.  We  were  tempted 
to  remain  too  long  upon  the  mountain ;  and  I,  imprudently,  with  the 
hope  of  shortening  the  way,  led  her  among  the  crags  and  down  a  steep 
slope  which  entangled  us  in  difficulties  that  were  met  by  her  with 
much  spirit  and  courage.  —  W.  W. 

29.   Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  Book  iii.  736-742. 

1817. 

Ode  to  Lycoris. 

This  poem  was  written  in  front  of  Rydal  Mount,  and  in  connection 
with  it  Wordsworth  says :  "  Surely  one  who  has  written  so  much  in 
verse  as  I  have  done  may  be  allowed  to  retrace  his  steps  in  the  re- 
gions of  fancy  which  delighted  him  in  his  boyhood,  when  he  first 
became  acquainted  with  the  Greek  and  Roman  poets.  Before  I  read 
Virgil  I  was  strongly  attached  to  Ovid.  As  to  Homer,  I  was  never 
weary  of  the  scenes  through  which  he  led  me."  The  following  lines 
of  the  poem  To  the  Same  show  that  these  poems  were  addressed  to 
his  wife  or  his  sister :  — 

"  Dearest  Friend ! 
We  too  have  known  such  happy  hours  together 
That,  were  power  granted  to  replace  them  (fetched 
From  out  the  pensive  shadows  where  they  lie) 
In  the  first  warmth  of  their  original  sunshine, 
Loath  should  I  be  to  use  it :  passing  sweet 
Are  the  domains  of  tender  memory ! " 

Pass  of  Kirkstone. 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  Thoughts  and  feelings  of  many  walks  in 
all  weathers,  by  day  and  night,  over  this  Pass,  alone  and  with  beloved 
friends.  — W.  W. 

If  one  is  staying  at  Grasmere  a  pleasant  tramp  of  two  days  may  be 
made  by  crossing  Helvellyn  by  Grisdale  Tarn  to  Patterdale,  and  re- 
turning by  way  of  Kirkstone  Pass  and  Ambleside.  From  Patterdale 
one  passes  Brother's  Water,  the  scene  of  the  Daffodils,  and  near  the 
summit  of  the  Pass  on  the  right  the  Kirk  stones.  The  famous  inn  is 
said  to  be  the  highest  inhabited  house  in  England.     The  views  on 


390  NOTES  TO  PAGES  240-248. 

the  route  are  of  surpassing  beauty,  although  all  is  so  desolate  there. 
From  the  inn  to  Ambleside  the  scenery  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the 
ruggedness  and  desolation  of  the  ascent.  Wansfell  and  Red  Screes 
are  near  at  hand  as  guardians  of  the  Vale,  while  below  lies  Winder- 
mere, her  islands  and  her  gleaming  bays  beautiful  in  the  dark  frame- 
work of  wooded  hills, 

"  Magnificent  and  beautiful  and  gay." 

Wordsworth's  inspiration  in  the  closing  lines  of  this  poem  is  indica- 
tive of  those  spiritual  heights  from  which  at  times  this  "  Prophet  of 
the  moral  depths  of  the  human  soul "  viewed  the  world. 

41-48.  Among  the  evidences  of  Roman  occupation  in  these  regions 
are  the  roads.  In  Hodgson's  History  of  Northumberland  Kirkstone 
Pass  is  mentioned  as  one  of  the  roads  by  which  Agricola  led  his  two 
columns  into  Westmoreland. 

Sequel  to  the  Beggars. 
See  note  to  the  Beggars,  1802. 


1818. 

Composed  upon  an  Evening  of  Extraordinary  Splendor  and  Beauty. 

Felt  and  in  great  part  composed  upon  the  little  mount  in  front  of 
our  abode  at  Rydal.  —  W.  W. 

61-80.    Cf.  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

After  the  production  of  the  immortal  Ode  (1806)  Wordsworth's  in- 
spiration did  not  again  reach  that  lofty  height,  unless  upon  this  occa- 
sion, when  the  glory  and  splendor,  the  "  intermingling  of  heaven's 
pomp,"  was  witnessed  during  a  sunset  among  the  Westmoreland  hills. 
Surely  the  purity,  the  sublimity,  the  grace,  and  simplicity  of  the  Ode 
are  here  reproduced  with  an  element  of  "  peace  supreme  "  which  is 
the  product  of  Christian  faith.     Cf.  Bryant's  Rivulet. 

Near  the  Spring  of  the  Hermitage. 

This  poem  is  one  of  a  series  of  Inscriptions  supposed  to  be  found  in 
or  near  a  Hermit'' s  Cell.     Written  at  Rydal. 
Cf.  My  Heart  Leaps  Up,  1802. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  249-254.  39 ^ 

1819. 

September,  1819. 
Composed  in  front  of  Rydal  Mount  and  during  my  walks  in  the 
neighborhood.  —  W.  W. 

In  the  Ode  to  Lycoris  we  have  ;  — 

"  When  Nature  marks  the  year's  decline 
Be  ours  to  welcome  it." 

It  is  true  that  Wordsworth  when  young  wrote  with  a  seriousness 
which  was  almost  premature.  Now  the  experiences  of  sorrow  have 
brought  the  "philosophic  mind,"  and  a  mood  more  serene,  more 
"  sweetly  gracious,"  succeeds.  The  optimism  of  the  first  four  stanzas 
is  a  reflection  from  the  Ode  to  Duty. 

"  Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright  " 
when  love  has  been  the  motive  of  our  lives,  for  then  "  the  least  of 
things  seem  infinite." 

29,  30.  "  He  serves  the  Muses  erringly  and  ill 

Whose  aim  is  pleasure,  light  and  fugitive." 

36.   Cf.  Horace,  Ode  Ad  Lollium. 
40.   Sappho,  Ode  to  Aphrodite. 

1820. 

The  River  Duddon. 
To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth. 

At  this  time  Dr.  Christopher  Wordsworth  was  rector  of  Lambeth 
parish ;  he  afterward  became  Master  of  Trinity. 

49-54.  Cf.  Sonnet,  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle,  also  Prelude,  \.  269 
et  seq. 

55-60.   Cf.  Sonnets  XI.,  XII. 

1823. 

Memory. 

Wordsworth,  in  the  note  to  Lines  Written  in  Macpherson's  Ossian, 
says  that  these  lines  on  Memory  were  suggested  by  some  apprehen- 
sions of  the  fate  of  Hartley  Coleridge. 

The  even  and  tranquil  course  in  which  the  Poet's  last  years  flowed 
on,  notwithstanding  the  "  immeasurable  loss  "  of  Dora,  is  fitly  repre- 


392  NOTES   TO  PAGES  254-260. 

sented  in  the  closing  stanzas  of  this  poem.  Mr.  Myers  asks :  "  What 
touch  has  given  to  these  lines  their  impress  of  unfathomable  peace  } 
There  speaks  from  them  a  tranquillity  which  seems  to  overcome  our 
souls;  which  makes  us  feel  that  we  are  travelling  to  a  region  where 
*  immoderate  fear  shall  leave  us,  and  inordinate  love  shall  die.' " 

To  the  Lady  Fleming. 

The  Flemings  are  descended  from  Sir  Michael  le  Fleming,  brother- 
in-law  of  William  the  Conqueror.  He  came  over  with  William,  and 
in  reward  for  services  against  the  Scots  received  manors  in  Lanca- 
shire and  Cumberland,  Coningstone  Hall  being  one.  See  note  to 
Conclusion  of  a  Poem,  1795. 

In  the  grant  to  Furness  Abbey  given  by  Stephen,  nephew  of  Henry  I., 
in  1 1 27,  we  find  "with  all  the  lands  thereof,  with  sac  and  soc,  tol  and 
team,  infangtheof,  and  everything  within  Furness,  except  the  lands  of 
Michael  le  Fleming." 

Rydal  estate  came  to  Thomas  le  Fleming  of  Coningstone  by  his 
marriage  with  Isabella,  co-heir  with  Sir  John  de  Lancastre,  to  whose 
ancestors  it  had  been  granted  by  Margaret,  widow  of  Robert  de  Ros, 
1274.  Grasmere  Church,  formerly  a  chapelry  under  the  mother 
church  of  Kendal,  was  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  sold  to  the  Le  Flem- 
ings of  Rydal. 

Rydal  Mount,  more  frequently  described  than  any  English  poet's 
home  except  Shakespeare's,  belonged  to  Rydal  Hall. 

1824. 

"O  dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear." 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.     To  Mrs.  W.  —  W.  W. 

The  picture  of  Wordsworth's  wedded  life  is  a  delight.  Every  allu- 
sion that  he  makes  to  his  wife  is  full  of  the  deepest  love  and  rever- 
ence. When  processes  of  logic  bring  him  doubt,  her  love  with  its 
"  sober  certainties  "  comes  to  his  relief.  She  thus,  "  not  too  bright  or 
good  for  human  nature's  daily  food,"  was  able  to  **  cherish  and  up- 
hold "  him. 

The  following  poem  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth  was  written  this  year  :  — 

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing. 

Bright  suns  without  a  spot ; 
But  thou  art  no  such  perfect  thing ; 

Rejoice  that  thou  art  not ! 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  260-270.  393 

Heed  not  tho'  none  should  call  thee  fair: 

So,  Mary,  let  it  be 
If  naught  in  loveliness  compare 

With  what  thou  art  to  me. 

True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats, 

Whose  veil  is  unremoved 
Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats, 

And  the  lover  is  beloved. 

See  Harriet  Martineau's  Biographical  Essays. 

Written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  Ossian. 
The  verses  — 

"or  strayed 
From  hope  and  promise,  self-betrayed  "  — 

were,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  suggested  from  apprehensions  of  the  fate  of 
my  friend  H.  C.,i  the  subject  of  the  verses  addressed  To  H.  C.  when 
six  years  old.    The  piece  to  Memory  arose  out  of  similar  feelings. — 
W.  W. 
See  Modern  Gaelic  Bards  in  Professor  Shairp's  Aspects  0/ Poetry. 

1825. 

To  a  Skylark. 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  —  W.  W. 

Cf.  the  earlier  (1805)  poem  on  the  same  subject;  also  Shelley's 
Skylark. 

1826. 

The  Pillar  of  Trajan. 

This  was  given  as  the  subject  for  the  Newdigate  prize  poem  at 
Oxford,  and  Wordsworth  wished  his  son  John,  who  was  then  an  un- 
dergraduate there,  to  try  for  it.  On  his  declining  to  do  so,  the  Poet 
wrote  this  to  show  him  what  could  be  done  with  the  subject. 

The  column  was  set  up  by  the  Senate  and  people  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  conquest  of  Dacia  by  Trajan.  It  was  132  feet  high  and 
surmounted  by  a  colossal  statue  of  the  Emperor ;  it  stood  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  Forum  Trajanum.  The  sculptures  which  covered  it  pic- 
ture the  Dacian  wars.     See  Merivale's  Romans  under  the  Emperors. 

55-60.   Cf.  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior. 

1  Hartley  Coleridge. 


394  NOTES  TO  PAGES  270-276. 


1828. 

The  Wishing  Gate. 
Written  at  Rydal.     See  alsd  Wishing-gate  Destroyed.  —  W.  W. 
A  gate  still  stands  in  the  old  place,  and  from  the  inscriptions  cut/ 
upon  it  one  would  judge  that  "  Hope  "  still  rules  there. 

Beside  the  wishing  gate  which  so  they  name, 
Mid  northern  hills  to  nie  this  fancy  came, 
A  wish  I  formed,  my  wish  I  thus  expressed : 
Would  I  could  wish  my  wishes  all  to  rest 
And  know  to  wish  the  wish  that  were  the  best. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

The  Wishing-Gate  Destroyed. 

In  regard  to  the  occasion  of  the  second  poem  Wordsworth  says : 
"  Having  been  told  that  this  gate  had  been  destroyed,  and  the  opening 
where  it  hung  walled  up,  I  gave  vent  immediately  to  my  feelings  in 
these  stanzas.  But  going  to  the  place  some  time  after,  I  found  with 
much  delight  my  old  favorite  unmolested." 

"  In  these  Fair  Vales  hath  Many  a  Tree." 
Inscription  for  a  Stone  in  the  Grounds  at  Rydal  Mount. 

Engraven  during  my  absence  in  Italy,  upon  a  brass  plate  inserted 
in  the  stone.  —  W.  W. 

The  inscription  still  remains  upon  the  stone.  Rev.  Mr.  Rawnsley, 
in  his  Reminiscences  of  Wordsworth  among  the  Peasantry,  gives  the  fol- 
lowing from  a  dalesman :  "  He  'ud  never  pass  folks  draining,  or  ditch- 
ing, or  walling  a  cottage  but  what  he  'd  stop  and  say, '  Eh  dear,  but  it 's 
a  pity  to  move  that  stoan,  and  doant  ya  think  ya  might  leave  that  tree  ? ' 
I  'member  there  was  a  walling  chap  just  going  to  shoot  a  girt  stoan  to 
bits  wi'  powder  in  the  grounds  at  Rydal,  and  he  came  up  and  saaved 
it,  and  wrote  summat  on  it." 


1831. 

The  Primrose  of  the  Rock. 
Written  at  Rydal  Mount.     The  rock  stands  on  the  right  hand,  a 
little  way  leading  up  the  middle  road  from  Rydal  to  Grasmere.     We 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  calling  it  the  Glow-worm  Rock,  from  the 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  276-278.  395 

number  of  glow-worms  we  have  often  seen  hanging  on  it  as  described. 
—  W.  W. 

We  walked  in  the  evening  to  Rydal.  Coleridge  and  I  lingered  be- 
hind. We  all  stood  to  look  at  the  Glow-worm  Rock  —  a  primrose 
that  grew  there,  and  just  looked  out  on  the  road  from  its  own  shel- 
tered bower.  —  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  1802. 

The  rock  still  remains. 

No  one  can  fail  to  notice  the  contrast  between  the  buoyant  charm 
and  natural  magic  of  the  Daffodils,  and  the  slower,  sweeter,  and  more 
reserved  style  of  this  poem.  Here  symbol  is  everything,  reality  next 
to  nothing.  We  must  admit  that  the  later  style  is  more  in  keeping 
with  the  truth  of  human  life,  for  to  most  of  us  it  is,  if  not  sad,  at  least 
a  serious  thing,  and  we  need  such  poetry  as  this,  with  its  "sweet 
reasonableness,"  to  keep  us  from  becoming  disheartened. 

"  The  Primrose  of  the  Rock,^^  says  Aubrey  de  Vere,  "  is  as  distinctly 
Wordsworthian  in  its  inspiration  as  it  is  Christian  in  its  doctrine." 

Yarrow  Revisited. 

In  the  autumn  of  1831  Wordsworth  and  his  daughter  set  out  for 
Scotland  to  visit  once  again  the  old  friend.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then  in 
declining  health.  At  Abbotsford  they  met  many  of  Scott's  family 
and  friends —  Major  Scott,  Anne  Scott,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lockhart,  and 
William  Laidlaw. 

On  the  next  morning  Scott  accompanied  them  to  Newark  Castle 
6n  the  Yarrow.  The  events  of  this  day  are  commemorated  in  the 
poem.  There  seems  to  be  a  deep  significance  in  the  fact  that  this 
time  the  two  poets  did  not  linger  on  the  braes  and  bens,  but  about 
the  mouldering  ruin  of  Newark ;  we  can  see  in  it  the  effect  of  the 
thought  that  this  was  probably  the  last  meeting  of  the  two.  The 
fear  that  Scott  would  not  be  able  to  revive  his  strength,  even  upon 
"  Warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes,"  oppresses  Wordsworth  and  colors 
the  whole  poem.  These  forebodings  proved  too  true.  This  was  not 
only  their  last  meeting,  but  it  was  Scott's  last  visit  to  the  Vale  of  Yar- 
row and  the  scenes  he  loved  so  dearly.  The  poem,  although  in  many 
respects  unequal  to  the  others  upon  the  same  subject,  is  nevertheless 
a  tender  and  affectionate  memorial  of  the  love  of  two  poets  differing 
widely  in  character  and  methods. 

"On  the  22d,"  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  "these  two  great  poets,  who  had 
through  life  loved  each  other  and  appreciated  each  others  genius 
more  than  infirm  spirits  ever  did  either  of  them,  spent  the  morning 
together  in  a  visit  to  Newark.    Hence  the  last  of  the  three  poems  by 


39^  NOTES  TO  PAGES  278-283. 

which  Wordsworth  has  connected  his  name  to  all  time  with  the  most 
romantic  of  Scottish  streams.  " 

Cf.  Remembrance  of  the  Braes  of  Yarrow^  by  Professor  Shairp. 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  from  Abbotsford,  for  Naples. 

On  their  return  from  Newark  in  the  afternoon  they  crossed  the 
Tweed  just  above  Abbotsford ;  as  the  wheels  grated  upon  the  pebbles 
of  the  stream  Wordsworth  noticed  the  sad  light  which  settled  upon 
the  Eildon  Hills,  and  thinking  it  might  be  the  last  time  Sir  Walter 
would  cross  the  stream,  he  was  moved  to  express  his  feelings,  which 
he  did  in  this  sonnet.  It  is  the  finest  tribute  ever  paid  by  one  poet 
to  another. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  upon  which  Wordsworth  left  Abbots- 
ford Sir  Walter  had  written  in  Dora's  album,  and  on  putting  the  book 
into  her  hand  he  said,  "  I  should  not  have  done  anything  of  this  kind 
but  for  your  father's  sake :  they  are  probably  the  last  verses  I  shall 
ever  write."    They  were  his  last.     One  stanza  is  as  follows  :  — 

♦'And  meet  it  is  that  he  who  saw 
The  first  faint  rays  of  genius  burn 
Snould  mark  their  latest  light  with  awe, 
Low  glimmering  from  their  funeral  urn." 

When  Wordsworth  on  parting  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  be 
restored  to  health  by  this  visit  to  Italy,  Sir  Walter  replied  in  words 
from  Yarrow  Unvisited.  This  incident  is  recalled  in  Wordsworth's 
Musings  in  Aquapendente :  — 

"  He  said,  *  When  I  am  there,  although  't  is  fair, 
'T  will  be  another  Yarrow.'     Prophecy 
More  than  fulfilled,  as  gay  Campania's  shores 
Soon  witnessed  and  the  city  of  the  seven  hills." 

Wordsworth  after  his  return  sent  these  two  poems  to  Scott 


1832. 

Devotional  Incitements. 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  — W.  W. 

This  poem  gives  conclusive  evidence  that  in  old  age  Wordsworth 
still  preserved  his  young  love  for  Nature,  and  his  magical  interpre- 
tive power.  The  keenness  of  insight,  the  lyric  rapture,  the  soothing 
effect  of  this  poem  written  at  the  age  of  sixty-two,  indicate  that  the 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  283-287.  397 

prayer  he  uttered  for  another  had  been  answered  for  him,  and  an  old 
age  serene  and  bright  had  been  granted.  This  Vesper  Hymn,  in- 
stinct with  that  "  grace  divine,"  without  which  there  can  be  no  Sab- 
bath of  the  heart,  should  be  read  in  connection  with  the  matins  in  the 
Excursion :  — 

"  Descend,  prophetic  Spirit !  that  inspir'st 

The  human  Soul.     Upon  me  bestow 

A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my  song 

With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine, 

Shedding  benignant  influence." 

"If  thou  Indeed." 

These  verses  were  written  some  time  after  we  had  become  resi- 
dents of  Rydal  Mount,  and  I  will  take  occasion  from  them  to  observe 
upon  the  beauty  of  that  situation,  as  being  backed  and  flanked  by  lofty 
fells  which  bring  the  heavenly  bodies  to  touch,  as  it  were,  the  earth 
upon  the  mountain  tops,  while  the  prospect  in  front  lies  open  to  a 
length  of  level  valley,  the  extended  lake,  and  a  terminating  ridge  of 
low  hills ;  so  that  it  gives  an  opportunity  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
place  of  noticing  the  stars  in  both  positions  here  alluded  to,  namely, 
on  the  tops  of  the  mountains  and  as  winter  lamps  at  a  distance  among 
the  leafless  trees.  — W.  W. 

We  see  from  the  above  what  a  realist  Wordsworth  was  as  regards 
the  origin  of  his  poems,  and  this  makes  them  exceedingly  interesting 
to  a  visitor  in  the  Country  of  the  Lakes. 

Cf.  Sonnet,  To  B.  R.  ffaydon,  1815. 


1833. 

"If  this  Great  World." 
This  poem  has  reference  to  the  excitement  caused  by  the  Reform 
Bill. 

1834. 

"Not  In  the  Lucid  Intervals  of  Life." 

The  lines  following  "  nor  do  words  "  were  written  with  Lord  Byron's 
character,  as  a  poet,  before  me,  and  that  of  others,  his  contemporaries, 
who  wrote  under  like  influences.  —  W.  W. 

Compare  sonnet,  The  world  is  too  much  with  usy  1806. 


398  NOTES  TO  PAGES  287-293. 

There  is  no  whining,  no  cynicism  here,  but  the  manly  utterance  of 
one  who  knew  that  better  things  were  near  if  one  had  the  inclination 
to  reach  forth  and  appropriate  them. 

To  a  Child. 

This  quatrain  was  extempore  on  observing  this  image,  as  I  had 
often  done,  on  the  lawn  of  Rydal  Mount.  It  was  first  written  down 
in  the  album  of  my  god-daughter,  Rotha  Quillinan.  —  W.  W. 


1835. 

Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb. 

Mary  Lamb  was  ten  years  older  than  her  brother,  and  has  survived 
him  as  long  a  time.  Were  I  to  give  way  to  my  own  feelings,  I  should 
dwell  not  only  on  her  genius  and  intellectual  powers,  but  upon  the 
delicacy  and  refinement  of  her  manners,  which  she  maintained  invio- 
lable under  most  trying  circumstances.  She  was  loved  and  honored 
by  all  her  brother's  friends.  The  death  of  Charles  Lamb  was  hastened 
by  his  sorrow  for  that  of  Coleridge.  —  W.  W. 

The  story  of  the  lives  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  is  one  which, 
while  sad  and  touching,  reveals  a  sweetness  and  fraternal  fidelity 
unparalleled  in  history.  What  a  contrast  is  the  companion  picture  of 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy  in  their  happy  lives  of  health  and 
strength  !  Lamb  was  buried  in  Edmonton  church-yard  in  a  spot 
selected  by  himself. 

23.   Cf.  Lamb's  sonnet  addressed  to  his  own  name.  ^ 

See  Talfourd's  Life  of  Charles  Lamb  ;  also  Wordsworth  and  Charles 
Lamb,  in  Transactions  of  the  Wordsworth  Society. 

Extempore  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg. 

These  lines  were  written  extempore  immediately  after  reading  a 
notice  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd's  death,  in  a  Newcastle  paper,  to  the 
editor  of  which  Wordsworth  sent  a  copy  for  publication.  In  Lock- 
hart's  Life  of  Scott,  an  account  is  given  of  their  first  meeting,  in  1803. 
Crabbe  he  had  met  in  London  at  Mr.  Rogers's,  and  in  rambles  upon 
Hampstead  Heath.  Mrs.  Hemans,  who  lived  at  Dovenest  on  Win- 
dermere, he  knew  intimately  and  loved  for  her  amiable  qualities,  and 
her  irreproachable  conduct  during  her  long  separation  from  an  unfeel- 
ing husband.     Of  his  friendship  for  Coleridge  and  Scott  his  poems 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  293-296.  399 

are  a  sufficient  history.  With  the  exception  of  Crabbe  these  poets 
were  younger  than  Wordsworth.  They  all  died  between  1832  and 
1835. 

1845. 

"So  Fair,  So  Sweet." 

The  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to  this  poem  was  a  walk  in 
July,  1844,  from  Windermere,  by  Rydal  and  Grasmere,  to  Loughrigg 
Tarn,  made  by  Wordsworth  in  company  with  J.  C.  Hare,  Sir  William 
Hamilton,  Professor  Butler,  and  others.  One  of  the  party  writes  of 
it  as  follows  :  — 

When  we  reached  the  side  of  Loughrigg  Tarn  the  loveliness  of 
the  scene  arrested  our  steps  and  fixed  our  gaze.  When  the  Poet's 
eyes  were  satisfied  with  their  feast  on  the  beauties  familiar  to  them, 
they  sought  relief  in  search,  to  them  a  happy  vital  habit,  for  new 
beauty  in  the  flower-enamelled  turf  at  his  feet.  There  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  fair  smooth  stone,  of  the  size  of  an  ostrich's  egg, 
seeming  to  imbed  at  its  centre,  and  at  the  same  time  to  display  a 
dark  star-shaped  fossil  of  most  distinct  outline.  Upon  closer  inspec- 
tion this  proved  to  be  the  shadow  of  a  daisy  projected  upon  it.  The 
Poet  drew  the  attention  of  the  rest  of  the  party  to  the  minute  but 
beautiful  phenomenon,  and  gave  expression  at  the  time  to  thoughts 
suggested  by  it,  which  so  interested  Professor  Butler  that  he  plucked 
the  tiny  flower,  and,  saying  that  "  it  should  be  not  only  the  theme  but 
the  memorial  of  the  thought  they  had  heard,"  bestowed  it  somewhere 
for  preservation.  —  Professor  Knight. 

Ruskin  says  of  the  poem  :  — 

"  That  is  a  bit  of  good,  downright,  foreground  painting,  —  no  mis- 
take about  it ;  daisy,  shadow,  and  stone  texture  and  all.     Our  painters 
must  come  to  this  before  they  have  done  their  duty." 
"The  child  is  father  of  the  man," 

for  here,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  we  have  the  intense  love,  the  clear 
vision,  the  rich  coloring,  of  the  earlier  poems. 

See  Aubrey  de  Vere,  Literature  in  its  Social  Aspects, 

1797. 

The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan. 

This  arose  out  of  my  observations  of  the  affecting  music  of  these 
birds  hanging  in  this  way  in  the  London  streets  during  the  freshness 
and  stillness  of  the  spring  mornings.  —  W.  W. 

See  Myers*  Wordsworth  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  page  16. 


400  NOTES. 


THE   SONNET. 

Among  the  Italians  there  originated  a  form  erf  verse  combination  in 
which  a  special  rime  arrangement  prevailed;  the  name  "sonnet"  was 
given  to  this.  It  was  a  short  poem  limited  to  the  expression  of  a 
single  idea ;  soon  fourteen  lines  became  the  fixed  length,  and  later 
these  lines  were  combined  according  to  fixed  and  intricate  rules. 
According  to  these  rules  the  ideal  sonnet  should  conform  to  the  fol- 
lowing conditions  :  It  must  consist  of  fourteen  lines  divided  into  two 
systems  —  the  major  system,  consisting  of  the  first  eight  lines,  com- 
plete in  themselves ;  and  then  the  minor  system,  with  six  concluding 
lines.  The  major  system  should  contain  but  two  rimes:  i,  4,  5.8, 
and  2,  3,  6,  7,  concluding  with  a  pause  in  the  sense.  In  the  minor  sys- 
tem there  should  be  only  two  rimes:  9,  ii,  13,  and  10,  12,  14.  Other 
rules  were  laid  down,  many  of  which  were  merely  capricious,  but  these 
were  insisted  upon. 

The  earliest  forms  of  the  sonnet  belong  to  the  thirteenth  century. 
Fra  Guittone  d'Arrezzo  furnished  the  model  for  Dante  and  Petrarch, 
who  perfected  this  form  of  writing,  the  one  giving  it  strength,  the 
other  beauty. 

"  A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ; 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief." 

That  period  of  English  literature  which  was  the  prelude  to  the  age 
of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare  received  its  main  impulse  from  Italy. 
The  influence  of  Chaucer  had  declined,  and  intellectual  life  disap- 
peared with  religious  liberty.  There  remained  only  a  few  puerile 
chroniclers,  and  imitators  of  inane  French  romance. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  the  nobility,  possibly 
shamed  by  the  contrast  to  the  Scottish  court,  began  to  give  some 
thought  to  the  education  of  their  children.  The  literary  centre  of 
Europe  was  at  the  brilliant  court  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  hither 
flocked  the  scholars  of  all  countries.  When  Englishmen  returned 
filled  with  enthusiasm,  and  became  tutors,  they  stimulated  their  pupils 
with  a  desire  to  visit  Italy,  the  "  land  of  promise." 

It  was  to  this  secondary  influence  of  the  revival  of  learning  that 
the  new  movement  in  literature  was  due.  The  heralds  of  the  dawn 
were  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  "  who  had 
tasted  the  sweet  and  stately  measures  and  style  of  Italian  poesy.**  To 
them  belongs  the  honor  of  reforming  the  literature  and  introducing 
the  sonnet  into  our  language.    Petrarch  was  their  model,  and  love 


NOTES.  401 

their  iheme.  Wyatt  followed  the  Italian  model  very  closely,  and  his 
work  is  characterized  by  strength  and  dignity.  Surrey  introduced 
some  changes  into  the  form  of  the  sonnet :  he  divided  it  into  three 
independent  quatrains,  and  closed  with  a  couplet.  His  work  was  dis- 
tinguished for  grace  and  beauty. 

During  the  last  ten  years  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  the  first  ten 
of  the  seventeenth  there  was  the  most  remarkable  production  of 
sonnets.  The  list,  headed  by  Sidney,  contains  the  names  of  Daniel, 
Constable,  Lodge,  Watson,  Drayton,  Spenser,  and  Shakespeare.  With 
Shakespeare  ends  the  first  form  of  the  English  sonnet,  composed  of 
three  quatrains  and  a  concluding  couplet, — 

ab  ab  cd  cd  ef  ef  gg. 

Milton's  sonnets,  although  few  in  number,  are  of  the  finest  quality ; 
in  their  structure  they  follow  Petrarch's  rule,  which  divides  the  sonnet 
into  two  unequal  parts,  the  major  and  the  minor.  This  is  the  second 
form  of  the  English  sonnet,  — 

I,  4,  5,  8,  2,  3,  6,  7,  II  9,  II,  13,  10,  12,  14,  or 
ab  ba  ab  ba  ||  cd  cd  cd. 

After  Milton  we  see  no  more  of  the  sonnet  in  its  power  until  we 
come  to  Cowper ;  following  him  is  that  illustrious  company  of  singers 
contemporary  with  the  French  Revolution,  —  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Shelley,  Byron,  and  Keats,  each  of  whom  made  substantial  contribu- 
tions to  the  sonnet  literature.  Among  these  Wordsworth's  work  is 
by  far  the  most  significant,  not  only  in  the  nature  and  variety  of  the 
subjects  treated,  but  also  in  the  manner  of  composition.  He  restored 
the  sonnet  to  the  place  it  held  in  Milton's  time.  The  style  of  the 
sonnet  was  at  the  farthest  remove  from  the  style  of  the  Prelude  and 
the  Excursion^  and  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  one  who  possessed 
such  wealth  of  thought  and  such  fluency  of  language  should  have  been 
satisfied 

"  Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground." 

But  Wordsworth  "  had  the  tonic  of  a  wholesome  pride ; "  he  was  a 
most  careful  writer  and  was  exceedingly  frugal  in  his  literary  econ- 
omy ;  these  were  the  prerequisites  for  success  with  the  sonnet.  The 
care  which  he  exercised  in  pruning,  recasting,  and  correcting  his 
workmanship  is  seen  in  the  frequent  alterations  of  the  text ;  many  of 
them  cover  the  period  of  a  lifetime,  and  preserve  for  us  the  changing 
moods  of  the  Poet's  mind.  While  nearly  every  poet  since  Words- 
worth has  occasionally  dignified  the  sonnet,  with  only  two  —  Elizabeth 

26 


402  NOTES  TO  PAGE  299. 

Barrett  Browning  and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  —  has  it  been  a  favorite 
form  of  expression.  Browning,  who  is  master  of  so  many  varieties  of 
verse,  has,  I  think,  never  used  the  sonnet  form. 


1802. 


"  I  Grieved  for  Buonaparte." 

We  are  fortunate  in  knowing  the  birthday  of  the  Wordsworthian 
sonnet.  On  May  21,  1802,  while  his  sister  was  reading  to  him  some 
of  Milton's  sonnets,  his  genius  was  kindled  and  immediately  produced 
three  sonnets :  this  sonnet  is  the  only  one  of  the  three  which  has  been 
preserved.  With  this  trumpet-call  to  "  a  few  strong  instincts  and  a 
few  plain  rules,"  opens  that  magnificent  series  of  Sonnets  to  Liberty, 
which  Mr.  Myers  says  are  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  noblest 
passages  of  patriotic  verse  or  prose  which  history  has  inspired. 

The  Prelude  gives  us  the  character  of  Wordsworth's  early  patri- 
otism ;  the  Sonnets  to  Liberty,  his  later ;  the  aims  and  principles  are 
the  same  in  both  —  the  enfranchisement  of  the  individual  from  the 
tyranny  of  a  low  ideal.  His  change  of  opinion  as  to  methods  was 
entirely  consistent,  and  he  had  a  much  truer  democratic  sense  of  the 
dignity  of  man  than  did  those  who  hastened  to  pronounce  him  a  de- 
serter of  the  cause. 

In  this  sonnet  one  hardly  knows  which  to  praise  the  most—  the  prac- 
tical wisdom,  the  lofty  conception,  or  the  grave  and  solemn  harmony. 
Can  one  confidently  affirm  that  in  these  respects  even  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  are  superior  ? 

II. 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3,  1802. 

Wordsworth  and  his  sister  left  Town-End  for  the  Continent  in  July, 
1802.  Under  date  of  July  30,  we  have  the  following  record  in  his 
sister's  diary :  "  Left  London  between  five  and  six  o'clock  of  the 
morning,  outside  the  Dover  coach.  A  beautiful  morning.  The  city, 
St.  Paul's,  the  river  —  a  multitude  of  boats  —  made  a  beautiful  sight 
as  we  crossed  Westminster  Bridge ;  the  houses  not  overhung  by 
their  clouds  of  smoke,  and  were  spread  out  endlessly ;  yet  the  sun 
shone  so  brightly,  with  such  a  pure  light,  that  there  was  something 
like  the  purity  of  one  of  Nature's  own  grand  spectacles."     It  was  on 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  299-301.  403 

the  way  to  Dover  that  this  sonnet  was  written,  hence  the  date  of  the 
heading  is  incorrect.     This  is  perhaps  the  best   known    of  Words- 
worth's sonnets,  as  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  noblest.     In  simplicity  I 
and  grace  of  language,  in  dignity  and  purity  of  sentiment,   in  unity  * 
and  compactness  of  form,  it   has   no  superior.     In  reference   to  it 
Walter  Bagehot  says:  "A  better  instance  of  pure  style  cannot  be 
found.     Not  a  single  expression  can  be  spared,  yet  not  a  single  ex-     y 
pression  rivets  the  attention."    The  full  beauty  of  this  sonnet  was  re- 
vealed to  me  when  in  July,  1887,  after  I  had  spent  the  night  in  the 
House  of  Commons  listening  to  Gladstone,  Harcourt,  and  Balfour,  I 
crossed  Westminster  Bridge  at  early  dawn.     The  contrast  between 
the  boisterous  scenes  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  the  beauty  and 
serenity  of  that  July  morning  was  indescribable. 

III. 

Composed  by  the  Seaside  near  Calais,  1802. 

This  sonnet  and  the  six  that  follow  it  were  composed  at  Calais  in 
August,  1802.  The  following  is  from  Dorothy's  Journal :  "  Arrived  at 
Calais  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  July  31st.  Delightful  walks 
in  the  evening,  seeing  far  off  in  the  west  the  coast  of  England  like  a 
cloud,  crested  with  Dover  Castle,  the  evening  star,  and  the  glory  of 
the  sky.  The  reflections  in  the  water  were  more  beautiful  than  the 
sky  itself,  —  purple  waves  brighter  than  precious  stones  forever  melting 
far  away  upon  the  sands." 

IV. 

Calais,  August,  1802. 
Cf.  Prelude^  vi.  339-341. 


Composed  near  Calais,  on  the  Road  leading  to  Andres. 

Robert  Jones  was  a  college  mate  of  Wordsworth,  and  accompanied 
him  upon  the  pedestrian  tour  in  Switzerland,  1790.  Cf.  Prelude^  vi. 
342  et  seq.,  with  notes. 

4.  July  14, 1790,  when  the  King  swore  fidelity  to  the  new  constitution. 


404  NOTES   TO  PAGES  301-303. 

VI. 

Calais,  August  15,  1802. 

3,  1 1.   Cf .  Prelude,  xi.  358-364,  and  note  to  previous  sonnet. 

VII. 
Composed  on  the  Beach  near  Calais. 
The  spirit  of  adoration,  so  restful,  so  calm,  so  intense,  pervading 
this  sonnet,  is  eminently  Wordsworthian.     The  concluding  lines  ex- 
press that  belief  in  the  divinity  of  childish  intuition,  which  is  so  prom- 
inent in  We  are  Seven  and  the  Ode. 

VIII. 
On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic. 

1.  The  result  of  the  fourth  crusade,  in  which  only  French  and  Vene- 
tians took  part,  was  that  the  Cyclades,  a  part  of  Thessaly,  some  of  the 
Byzantine  cities,  and  about  one  half  of  the  city  of  Constantinople  fell 
to  Venice.  — Knight. 

2.  Venice,  in  virtue  of  her  naval  power,  was  once  mistress  of  the 
Mediterranean.     The  spoils  and  trade  of  the  East  enriched  the  city. 

4,  5.    See  Ruskin,  Stones  of  Venice. 

In  452  Attila  invaded  Venetia  and  destroyed  its  capital,  Aquileia ; 
the  fugitives  from  the  cities  fled  to  the  islands  in  the  lagoons  and  the 
Gulf  of  Venice  ;  they  soon  became  independent  and  chose  their  own 
consuls  ;  in  697  they  chose  their  first  doge. 

7,  8.  In  II 77  she  gained  a  great  victory  over  Otho,  son  of  Fred- 
erick Barbarossa;  in  gratitude  for  this  the  Pope  Alexander  III.  gave 
the  Doge  Ziani  a  ring,  and  instituted  the  ceremony  of  "marrying  the 
Adriatic,"  by  which  was  signified  the  supremacy  of  Venice.  In  May, 
1797,  the  French  troops  took  possession  of  the  city,  which  no  hostile 
force  had  ever  before  entered,  and  Venice  lost  her  independence. 

Cf.  Mrs.  Oliphant's  Makers  of  Venice. 

IX. 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 

The  life  of  the  Hero  of  St.  Domingo  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling  in 
the  annals  of  history.  Born  of  slave  parents,  having  learned  to  read 
and  write  from  a  fellow  slave,  he  joined  the  negro  army  in  maintaining 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  303,  304.  405 

their  rights,  and  rose  to  be  brigadier-general ;  in  1793  Hayti  declared 
for  France,  and  slaves  were  freed.  In  1796  he  was  made  commander 
of  the  French  army  of  St.  Domingo,  and  conquered  the  English  and 
Spanish  armies.  When  Napoleon  attempted  to  reinstate  slavery  Tous- 
saint  resisted,  and  in  1802  he  was  declared  an  outlaw  and  captured  by 
treachejy ;  without  trial  he  was  cast  into  the  dungeon  at  the  Castle  of 
Joux  and  left  to  die  of  starvation. 

See  Toussaint  UOuverture,  by  Whittier. 

In  this  **  soul-animating  strain  "  passion,  with  a  step  as  stately  as 
that  of  Milton,  rises  into  an  outburst  of  noble  exultation.  A  divine 
sympathy,  overleaping  the  narrow  limits  of  nationality,  breathes  from 
every  line.- 

X. 

September,  1802,  near  Dover. 

In  Dorothy's  Journal  we  have  the  following:  "  On  29th  August  left 
Calais  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the  morning  for  Dover.  .  .  .  Bathed  and 
sat  on  the  Dover  cliffs,  and  looked  upon  France ;  we  could  see  the 
shores  almost  as  plain  as  if  it  were  but  an  English  lake." 

No  man  of  his  time,  statesman,  philosopher,  or  poet,  saw  with  such 
unerring  insight  into  the  great  moral  forces  that  determine  the  cur- 
rents of  history.  —  Hon.  George  F.  Hoar. 


Written  in  London,  September,  1802. 

Wordsworth  had  a  high  ideal  of  his  art,  because  he  had  a  high 
ideal  of  man.  Perhaps  in  none  of  his  sonnets  are  there  so  many  les- 
sons for  us  in  this  mechanical  and  utilitarian  age. 

See  Shakespeare,  Sonnet  CXLVI. 

There  tiny  pleasures  occupy  the  place 

Of  glories  and  of  duties,  as  the  feet 

Of  fabled  fairies,  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

Trip  o'er  the  grass  where  wrestlers  strove  by  day. 

Landor. 

The  work  Wordsworth  did  —  and  I  say  it  in  all  reverence  —  was  the 
work  which  the  Baptist  did  when  he  came  to  the  pleasure-laden  citi- 
zens of  Jerusalem  to  work  a  reformation.  —  Rev.  F.  W.  Robertson. 


4o6  NOTES  TO  PAGES  304-306. 


XII. 
London,  1802. 


The  procession  of  the  verse  in  this  noble  sonnet  is  easy  and  grace- 
ful, rising  throughout  the  major  part  into  the  full  organ  tone ;  then 
in  the  minor  falling  gently  away,  calming,  regulating,  and  restrain- 
ing, with  "  artlessness  which  only  art  commands."  For  splendor  of 
thought,  vigor  of  style,  and  beauty  of  purpose  it  is  unsurpassed. 


XIII. 
"  Great  men  have  been  among  us." 

Goethe  says  that  the  theme  of  all  human  history  is  the  contest  be- 
tween belief  and  unbelief;  that  periods  in  which  belief  prevails  are 
inspiring,  while  periods  in  which  unbelief  predominates  furnish  but 
little  food  for  the  spirit  of  man. 

Cf.  Prelude,  vii.  512-543. 


XIV. 
"  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood." 

In  this  time  of  an  expected  invasion  by  Napoleon,  when  the  heart 
of  England  was  beating  high,  and  signal  beacons  were  flashing  the 
summons  to  arms,  this  calm,  clear,  triumphant  faith  in  freedom  was 
uttered. 

Cf.  Coleridge's  Ode  on  France. 

XV. 

"  When  I  have  borne  in  Memory." 

In  the  history  of  Wordsworthian  criticism  there  are  to  be  found  three 
sets  of  charges  against  him  —  Simplicity  and  Transcendentalism ; 
Pantheism  and  High  Churchism ;  Liberalism  and  Conservatism;  now 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  none  of  these  were  well  founded.  In 
this  sonnet  we  have  a  mingling  of  the  aristocratic  and  democratic, 
resulting  in  intense  and  lofty  love  of  country. 

Cf.  Prelude,  xi.  105,  — "  Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive,"  etc. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  306,  307.  407 


1803. 

XVI. 
Composed  at Castle* 

The  town  of  Peebles  is  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed.  After  break- 
fast walked  up  the  river  to  Neidpath  Castle,  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  town.  The  castle  stands  upon  a  green  hill  overlooking  the 
Tweed  —  a  strong,  square-towered  edifice,  neglected  and  desolate 
though  not  in  ruin,  the  garden  overgrown  with  grass,  and  the  high 
wall  that  fenced  it  broken  down ;  but  I  need  not  describe  the  scene, 
for  William  has  done  it  better  than  I  could  do  in  a  sonnet  which  he 
wrote  the  same  day. —  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal^  Sept.  18,  1803. 

See  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland^  1803,  and  notes;  also  Intro- 
duction to  Canto  I.  of  Scott's  MarmioHy  1-36. 

XVII. 
"There  is  a  Bondage  worse,  far  worse  to  bear." 

Napoleon  had  been  elected  Consul  for  life,  and  was  making  rapid 
strides  toward  absolute  power ;  by  his  interference  in  the  affairs  of 
Switzerland,  England  claimed  that  he  had  violated  the  treaty  of 
Amiens,  and  in  May,  1803,  war  was  declared. 

Wordsworth's  moral  earnestness  never  encourages  one  to  break 
with  the  world  and  live  in  the  seclusion  of  the  cloister.  He  strove  to 
serve  his  country  and  mankind  by  teaching  that  life  is  the  workshop 
in  which  is  fashioned  the  armor  of  the  soul. 

Cf.  Horace,  Ode  XXII.,  —  "  Integer  vitae  scelerisque  purus." 


XVIII. 
October,  1803. 

What  a  country  longs  for  is  personalities,  grand  persons  to  counter- 
act its  materialities.  —  Emerson. 


4o8  NOTES  TO  PAGES  308,  309. 

XIX. 

"England!  the  Time  is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean." 
What  moral  courage  was  required  to  utter  the  "  odious  truth  "  con- 
tained in  the  major  part  of  this  sonnet !     He  was  equally  undaunted 
in  his  Tract  on  the  Convention  ofCintra,  which  Canning  declared  to  be 
the  finest  piece  of  political  eloquence  since  Burke. 

XX. 

To  the  Men  of  Kent,  October,  1803. 

The  "  men  of  Kent "  were  the  inhabitants  of  that  part  of  the  country 
nearest  France.  On  this  coast  the  Romans  landed,  and  "  Cantium  " 
was  the  recipient  of  many  privileges  at  their  hands.  Later  the  Saxons 
fought  their  first  battles  there.  These  people  could  not  be  conquered 
by  the  Normans.  The  Saxon  law  of  gavelkind  is  peculiar  to  this 
county;  by  it  the  estates  are  inherited  equally  by  all  the  sons. 

It  does  the  heart  good  to  read  these  fine  and  pure  and  true  and 
manly  words,  from  a  man  whose  every  word  and  every  thought  and 
every  act  were  the  words  and  thoughts  and  acts  of  manly,  true-spirited, 
high-minded  Englishmen.  —  Rev.  F.  W.  Robertson. 

XXI. 
V  In  the  Pass  of  Killicranky. 

An  invasion  being  expected,  October ^  1803. 

Thursday,  September  8.  —  Before  breakfast  we  walked  to  the  Pass 
of  Killicranky.  .  .  .  Every  one  knows  that  this  Pass  is  famous  in 
military  history.  When  we  were  travelling  in  Scotland  an  invasion 
was  hourly  looked  for,  and  one  could  not  but  think  with  some  re- 
gret of  the  times  when  from  the  now  depopulated  Highlands  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  men  might  have  been  poured  down  for  the  defence 
of  the  country.  ...  I  will  transcribe  a  sonnet  suggested  to  William 
by  this  place  and  written  in  October,  1803.  —  Dorothy  Wordsworth's 
Tournal. 

Professor  Shairp,  alluding  to  the  depopulation  of  the  Highlands 
which  began  early  in  this  century,  says  •  "  The  old  native  Gael  who 
used  to  live  grouped  in  hamlets  in  the  glens  .  .  .  were  dispossessed 
of  their  holdings  to  make  way  for  Lowland  farmers.  One  question 
only  was  asked  —  What  shall  grow  the  largest  amount  of  mutton  for 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  309,  310.  4^9 

> 

the  Glasgow  and  Liverpool  markets  ?  In  the  glens  which  formerly 
sent  forth  whole  regiments  you  could  not  now  get  a  single  man  to 
wear  her  Majesty's  uniform." 

See  Professor  Blackie,  The  Highlander's  Lament. 

The  following  is  from  Last  Leave-taking  of  the  Mountains^  by  Duncan 
Maclntyre,  the  Bard  of  Glenorchy :  — 

"  Yestreen  as  I  walked  the  mountain, 

O  the  thoughts  that  arose  in  me ; 
For  the  people  I  loved  that  used  to  be  there 

In  the  desert,  no  more  could  I  see. 
Ah  !  little  I  dreamed  that  Ben 

Such  changes  could  undergo, 
That  I  should  see  it  covered  with  sheep. 

And  the  world  would  deceive  me  so  I " 

See  note  to  Address  to  Kilchurn  Castle. 


1806. 


"Nuns  fret  not  at  their  Convent's  Narrow  Room." 

Wordsworth  felt  that  there  existed  prejudices  against  the  sonnet, 
and  that  it  lay  under  a  slight  that  was  undeserved :  he  therefore  de- 
termined to  reinstate  it  in  its  former  place  of  dignity  and  power. 

See  note  on  Personal  Talk. 

This  is  one  of  those  doctrinal  poems,  abounding  in  Mr.  Words- 
worth's works,  which  some  persons  complain  that  they  cannot  under- 
stand, having  read  them  probably  as  rapidly  as  they  would  any  erotic 
effusion  of  any  glowing  gentleman  who  writes  verses.  —  Sir  Henry 
Taylor. 

Cf.  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ,  1827. 


XXIII. 
Composed  by  the  side  of  Qrasmere  Lak«. 
Cf.  Matthew  Arnold's  Quiet  Work. 


410  NOTES  TO  PAGES  310-312. 


XXIV. 
"The  World  is  too  much  with  us." 

Wordsworth  does  not  condemn  commercial  activity  in  general,  but 
seeing  clearly  that  an  inordinate  greed  for  gain  often  led  to  specula- 
tion which  was  little  short  of  gambling,  and  in  which  the  entire  life 
was  engrossed  —  man  entering  into  slavery  to  his  passions,  —  he  ut- 
tered these  solemn  truths,  *'  to  free,  arouse,  dilate." 

Nature  will  not  have  us  fret  or  fume.  When  we  come  out  of  the 
caucus,  or  the  bank,  or  the  Abolition  convention,  or  the  Transcen- 
dental Club,  into  the  fields  and  woods,  she  says  to  us,  "So  hot,  my 
little  sir."  —  Emerson. 

See  Browning's  Grammarian's  Funeral. 

14.  Cf.  Spenser,  Colin  Clouts  Come  Home  Again,  1.  245.  —  Prof.  A. 
S.  Cook. 

XXV.-XXVIII. 
Personal  Talk. 

Wordsworth  found  a  new  use  for  the  sonnet,  and  turned  its  force  into 
fresh  channels.  While  others  had  addressed  several  sonnets  to  the 
same  person,  no  one  until  his  time  had  so  united  a  series  that,  while 
each  sonnet  was  complete  in  itself,  it  at  the  same  time  formed  a  stanza 
of  a  larger  poem.  The  four  following,  entitled  Personal  Talk,  illus- 
trate this  unity,  evolution,  and  completeness. 

The  picture  of  Wordsworth's  domestic  life  is  one  of  the  brightest 
in  the  history  of  literary  genius.  Free,  joyous,  and  contented  in  their 
cottage  home  —  which  was  even  less  pretentious  than  that  of  many  of 
the  humble  dalesmen  —  they  gave  to  the  world  an  example  of  "  plain 
living  and  high  thinking."  Living  in  communion  with  her  who  was 
dearer  to  him  than  life  and  light ;  cheered  by  the  loved  presence  of 
the  "dear,  dear  sister,"  with  an  occasional  visit  from  the  sailor  brother 
or  Coleridge,  what  need  had  he  to  enter  the  society  of  "the  world's 
true  Worldlings  !  "  One  whose  companions  are  Spenser  and  Shake- 
speare  will  have  no  time  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  scandal-mongers, 
those  assassins  of  character.  While  the  Poet  recognizes  the  neces- 
sity of  themes  which  are  concrete  rather  than  abstract,  he  would  se- 
Ject  such  as  do  not  foster  the  "  comment  and  the  gibe,"  but  such  as 
conduct  the  mind  from  the  "  seen  and  the  temporal,  to  the  unseen  and 
the  eternal."  Who  can  believe  but  that  "  great  gains  "  result  from 
such  a  life  1 

Lines  9,  10,  ii,  and  12  of  Sonnet  XXVIII.  are  cut  upon  the  pedestal 
of  the  Poet's  statue  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  313-315.  4" 

XXIX.-XXXI. 
To  Sleep. 

"  The  three  sonnets  to  Sleep,"  says  Sara  Coleridge,  "  are  very  beau- 
tiful and  peculiar  ;  not  Miltonic,  or  Shakespearean,  or  Petrarchian, 
nor  like  the  productions  of  any  later  sonnetteers,  but  entirely  Words- 
worthian  and  inimitable." 

Cf.  Macbeth,  ii.  2  ;  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  iii.  2 ;  Henry  IV., 
Part  II.,  iii.  i ;  Archbishop  Trench,  Ode  to  Sleep. 

XXXII. 
To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert. 

In  1794,  when  Wordsworth  was  unsettled  in  his  plans  for  the  future, 
his  friend  Calvert  was  taken  ill,  and  he  went  to  care  for  him. 
Calvert  was  steward  to  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  and  although  "  himself 
no  poet,"  he  could  appreciate  genius  in  others  ;  Wordsworth  re- 
mained with  him  until  his  death,  and  on  opening  his  will  it  was  found 
that  ;^90O  had  been  bequeathed  him  ;  this  was  a  turning-point  in  the 
Poet's  career,  and  the  gift,  in  its  importance,  was  second  only  to  that 
earlier  "  gift  of  God,"  Dorothea.  It  enabled  him  to  have  a  home,  and 
in  1795  ^^  settled  with  his  sister  at  Racedown. 

See  note  to  Lines  Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,  1795. 

In  the  Prelude  (xiv.  355-369)  Wordsworth  has  recorded  his  grati- 
tude to  Calvert  for  thus  "  clearing  a  passage  for  him." 

XXXIII. 

November,  1806. 

Napoleon's  victory  at  Jena,  October  14,  had  completely  shattered 
the  power  of  Prussia,  England's  sole  ally  on  the  Continent;  and  in 
November  Napoleon  issued  his  declaration  of  war  against  this  only  re- 
maining fortress  of  liberty.  When  many,  considering  the  cause  to  be 
hopeless,  were  ready  to  yield  a  base  submission,  from  the  solitude  of 
the  North  there  came  a  voice,  clear,  loud,  and  strong,  exulting  in  a 
sublime  faith  in  the  might  of  right,  calling  upon  England  to  arouse 
herself. 


412  NOTES  TO  PAGES  315,  316. 


XXXIV. 
Admonition. 

Intended  more  particularly  for  the  perusal  of  those  who  may  have 
happened  to  be  enamoured  of  some  beautiful  place  of  retreat  in  the 
country  of  the  Lakes.  —  W.  W. 

Qi,  Highland  Hut,  1831. 

The  light  which  shone  and  the  voice  which  called  from  heaven  on 
Saul  of  Tarsus  were  not  more  distinctly  influences  which  uncondition- 
ally seized  and  swayed  the  apostle,  than  was  the  Power  in  the  out- 
ward world  which  surrounded,  revealed  itself,  and  made  the  poet-seer 
its  own,  its  daily  vassal  and  its  impassioned  voice.  —  Professor 
Veitch. 

1807. 

XXXV. 
Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland. 

This  was  composed  while  pacing  to  and  fro  between  the  Hall  of 
Coleorton,  then  rebuilding,  and  the  principal  farm-house  of  the  estate, 
in  which  we  lived  for  nine  or  ten  months.  —  W.  W. 

See  notes  to  The  Nightingale,  1807. 

In  1802  Napoleon  crushed  out  the  liberties  of  Switzerland :  in  1807 
he  was  master  of  Europe,  and  was  making  gigantic  preparations  to 
invade  England. 

Here  is  passion  of  a  great  thought  taken  up  in  stillness  into  a  great 
imagination.  Passion  must  indeed  burn  strongly  in  the  heart  before 
it  can  fling  its  glow  thus  high  into  the  loftier  regions  of  the  intelli- 
gence. That  is  the  reason  why  such  poetry  seems  cold  to  readers 
whose  narrower  sympathies  can  recognize  passion  only  in  its  interjec- 
tional  form.     Its  white  heat  is  to  them  snow.  —  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

This  is  what  I  call  perfect  workmanship,  .  .  .  not  an  image,  not  a 
word,  but  what  helps  the  vision  of  the  idea.  —  Dr.  Hudson. 

XXXVI. 

To  Thomas  Clarkson,  on  the  Final  Passing  of  the  Bill  for  the  Abolition  of  the 
Slave  Trade. 

Clarkson's  work  began  when  he  selected  his  subject  for  his  Latin 
essay  at   St.  John's  College,  Cambridge:    "Anne   liceat  invitos  in 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  316,  317.  4^3 

servitutem  dare  ? "  From  that  time  he  devoted  himself  to  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  slave  trade.  The  most  powerful  opposition  arose  against 
him,  and  not  until  the  accession  of  Fox,  in  1806,  did  the  cause  gain 
advantage  in  Parliament ;  in  March,  1807,  the  Government  declared 
the  slave  trade  illegal. 

When  Wordsworth's  soul  was  stirred  with  the  greater  passions 
of  humanity  he  rises  to  a  height  of  majestic  passion,  his  words  have 
the  stately  step  of  the  gods  —  they  burn  like  the  bush  on  Sinai,  white, 
but  unconsumed.  —  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke. 


1811. 

XXXVII. 
"Here  Pause:  the  Poet  claims  at  least  this  Praise." 

Napoleon's  grand  march  through  Europe  dazzled  the  eyes  of  weak 
men  everywhere,  and  many  seemed  to  lose  the  power  to  discriminate 
between  right  and  wrong,  between  greatness  and  power ;  the  scales 
of  conscience  were  tampered  with,  and  admiration  for  that  Enemy  of 
virtue  became  weightier  than  virtue  itself.  Wordsworth  felt  that  such 
a  condition  of  political  morality  merited  the  severest  indignation  of 
^11  true  men.     The  true  poet  is  the  true  man. 

"  The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 
With  golden  stars  above ; 

Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love." 

1815. 

XXXVIII. 

To  B.  R.  Haydon. 

No  artist  ever  had  a  higher  ideal  of  his  calling,  or  pursued  it  with 
more  unswerving  devotion,  than  Wordsworth.  "  It  was  the  main,  the 
serious,  the  solemn  business  of  his  being,"  He  believed  that  a  poet 
was  both  born  and  made ;  that  poetry  was  a  divine  gift,  "  not  to  be 
acquired  by  labor  and  learning,  but  adorned  with  both."  Possessing 
powers  which  —  had  he  chosen  to  use  them  for  that  end  —  would  have 
secured  for  him  immediate  popularity,  through  long  years  of  contempt 


414  NOTES   TO  PAGE  317. 

and  ridicule  Wordsworth  resolutely  withstood  all  temptation.  When 
his  few  admirers  were  troubled  by  the  coldness  with  which  his  work 
was  received,  he  replied  :  "  Make  yourselves  at  rest  respecting  me  ;  I 
speak  the  truths  the  world  must  feel  at  last."  Wordsworth's  idea  of 
the  call  and  mission  of  the  poet  should  be  contrasted  with  that  of 
Pope.  "  Poetry  and  criticism,"  says  Pope,  "  are  by  no  means  the  uni- 
versal concern  of  the  world,  but  only  the  affair  of  idle  men  who 
write  in  their  closets,  and  of  idle  men  who  read  there.  .  .  .  All  the 
advantages  I  can  think  of  accruing  from  a  genius  for  Poetry,  are  an 
agreeable  power  of  self-amusement,  when  a  man  is  idle  or  alone,  —  the 
privilege  of  being  admitted  into  the  best  company." 

A  more  brilliant  or  a  more  pathetic  career  than  that  of  Haydon  is 
hardly  to  be  found.  Confessedly  a  genius  of  the  highest  order;  with 
a  love  for  his  art  which  has  never  been  surpassed ;  sublimely  cour- 
ageous in  his  devotion  to  what  he  considered  to  be  his  duty  as  a 
leader  of  "  Historic  Painting ; "  surrounded  by  the  most  steadfast 
friends  and  the  most  subtle  enemies ;  now  upon  the  highest  wave  of 
favor,  now  lodging  in  a  debtor's  jail,  and  at  last  driven  to  despair  at 
being  cheated  of  his  deserts ;  repeating  the  wail  of  Lear  — 

"  Stretch  me  no  longer  on  this  tough  world,"  — 
he  takes  his  own  life. 

At  the  time  this  sonnet  was  sent  him  he  was  suffering  a  cruel  per- 
secution at  the  hands  of  some  members  of  the  Royal  Academy  be- 
cause he  had  discomfited  them  in  their  attempts  to  cast  doubt  upon 
the  genuineness  of  the  Elgin  marbles,  and  had  said,  "  No  more  sign 
painting  now."  The  petty  spite  and  jealousy  which  were  exhibited 
by  the  authorities  in  refusing  to  give  his  work  a  fair  showing  before 
the  public  seem  hardly  credible.  Cowper  wrote :  "  I  blush  for  a  state 
of  society  in  which  talents  and  genius  such  as  yours  meet  with  such 
a  reward." 

That  Haydon  was  often  indiscreet  his  friends  acknowledge,  but  even 
his  indiscretions  were  "  born  of  high-mindedness  and  a  jealousy  for 
good." 

**  His  singleness  of  aim 
Ought  to  have  frightened  into  brooded  shame 
A  money-mong'ring,  pitiable  brood." 

What  the  sympathy  of  a  man  like  Wordsworth  meant  to  him  is 
shown  in  his  correspondence.  On  receiving  this  sonnet  he  wrote  : 
"  It  is  the  highest  honor  that  ever  was  paid  or  ever  can  be  paid  to  me. 
You  are  the  first  English  poet  who  has  ever  done  complete  justice  to 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  317,  318.  4^5 

my  delightful  art."  Again,  when  he  was  so  successfully  advancing  his 
great  object  by  his  lectures  on  art,  which  were  received  with  such 
enthusiasm  at  Oxford,  he  wrote :  "  To  whom  shall  I  dedicate  them  ? 
To  William  Wordsworth,  who  raised  up  their  author  into  the  eye  of 
his  country  when  he  was  oppressed  and  persecuted."  Again,  when 
alluding  to  the  honors  of  his  lite,  he  said  :  *'  The  first  and  the  last  are 
the  greatest  —  the  sonnets  of  Wordswortl^  and  my  reception  at  the 
University  of  Oxford;  but  the  first  is  \.\i&  first  and  will  ever  remain  so." 

Besides  Wordsworth,  Keats  manfully  supported  the  great  painter. 
See  his  sonnets  addressed  to  Haydon 

1l\\&  Judgment  0/ Solomon  and  Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem,  showed 
conclusively  that  Haydon  was  the  first  historical  painter  that  Eng- 
land had  produced.  The  latter  is  now  the  property  of  the  Catholic 
Cathedral  in  Cincinnati.  "The  original  study  of  Wordsworth  (whom 
Haydon  introduced  into  the  picture  in  the  character  of  a  devout  be- 
liever) is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  J.  S.  Pearce,  of  London;  on  it  in 
the  artist's  writing  is  — 

'*  *  Wordsworth, 

For  Entry  into  Jerusalem,  1817.'  "  —  Knight. 

See  Browning's  Popularity^  and  Carlyle's  The  Hero  as  Poet. 

This  sonnet,  the  title  of  which  in  the  early  editions  of  Wordsworth's 
works  was  To  R.  B.  Haydon,  is  alluded  to  by  Haydon,  in  a  letter  to 
Moxon  the  publisher,  as  follows :  "  He  [Wordsworth]  dedicates  his 
sonnets  to  R.  B.  Haydon.     My  name  is  B.  R.  Haydon." 

XXXIX. 

Catherine  Wordsworth. 

Wordsworth  had  already  tasted  of  the  cup  of  affliction  in  the  death 
of  his  brother;  in  18 12  he  was  made  to  drink  deep  draughts,  for  in 
that  year  his  little  daughter  Catherine,  and  his  second  son,  Thomas, 
a  lad  of  but  six  years,  died.  They  were  buried  in  the  church-yard  at 
Grasmere.     In  the  epitaph  we  find  these  lines  :  — 

"  O  blessed  Lord  ! 
Support  us  !  teach  us  calmly  to  resign 
What  we  possessed,  and  now  is  wholly  Thine." 

Wordsworth  at  this  time  was  living  at  the  Parsonage,  opposite  the 
Church,  and  the  proximity  to  the  graves  of  his  little  ones  continually 
recalled  to  him  his  losses :  he  accordingly  removed  to  Rydal  Mount. 


41 6  NOTES  TO  PAGES  318,  319. 

1820. 

XL. 

Oxford,  May  30,  1820. 

Although  Wordsworth  was  loyal  to  his  own  University,  yet  he  could 
sing  the  praises  of  her  rival. 

See  Boase's  excellent  history  of  Oxford,  ir.  Historic  Towns. 


"Sole  Listener,  Duddon." 

The  remarkable  series  entitled  The  River  Duddon  includes  thirty- 
four  sonnets.  The  local  allusions  in  these  can  be  easily  identified. 
Wordsworth  fixed  the  rise  of  the  Duddon  near  three  shire-stones  — 
the  meeting-point  of  the  counties  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  and 
Lancashire.  In  1887  I  explored  the  "  birthplace  "  of  this  stream,  with 
the  aid  of  the  excellent  notes  of  Mr.  Herbert  Rix,  to  whom  I  am  in- 
debted for  many  of  the  following  notes. 

Wrynose  Bottom,  the  scene  of  this  sonnet,  is  wild  and  lonely,  yet 
everywhere  you  meet  the  "tripping  lambs,"  —  better  scalers  of  the 
crags  than  you  are  likely  to  prove.  At  Cockley  Beck  there  is  a  farm- 
house, possibly  the  "  cottage  rude  and  gray." 


Seathwaite  Chapel. 

With  the  Poet  as  our  guide,  we  leave  the  springs  of  the  Duddon 
and  pass  the  first  of  the  three  sets  of  "  Stepping  Stones,"  the  "  Faery 
Chasm,"  and  come  to  a  crag  known  to  the  dalesmen  as  The  Pen.ixom. 
which  Mr.  Rix  thinks  Wordsworth's  "  Open  Prospect  "  was  had.  From 
it  we  get  views  of  the  rich  sylvan  beauty  of  the  Duddon  Valley;  Hard- 
knott,  with  its  remains  of  a  Roman  camp,  Stoneside,  with  its  Druid 
Circle,  and  Seathwaite,  with  its  venerable  yews  and  old  gray  chapel, 
are  in  sight. 

At  Seathwaite,  in  1709,  was  bom  Robert  Walker,  better  known  in 
the  Lake-land  as  Wonderful  Walker.  He  was  the  youngest  of  twelve 
children,  and  being  of  delicate  frame  was  bred  a  scholar  and  took 
holy  orders ;  he  was  appointed  to  the  cure  of  Seathwaite,  the  value 
of  which  was  ;^5  a  year.  Besides  ministering  to  the  spiritual  needs 
of  his  people  he  taught  school  in  the  chapel,  and  Wordsworth  says 
that  when  in  the  winter  the  pupils  suffered  from  the  cold  he  sent  them 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  319-321.  417 

to  the  parsonage  or  for  a  run  on  the  mountain-side.  In  the  evening  he 
was  busy  teasing,  spinning,  and  weaving  wool.  .  His  pew  in  the  chapel 
is  still  to  be  seen  upholstered  with  the  cloth  woven  at  the  parsonage. 
He  assisted  the  dalesmen  in  their  husbandry,  and  at  clipping  time 
plied  the  shears.  On  Sundays  broth  was  served  at  the  parsonage  to 
those  of  the  congregation  who  had  come  from  a  distance.  He  pur- 
sued his  studies  by  a  light  made  of  rushes  dipped  in  tallow ;  and 
Wordsworth,  who  was  no  mean  critic,  says  that  his  style  was  "  cor- 
rect, simple,  and  animated." 

His  wife  died  in  January,  1802,  aged  ninety-three ;  and  in  June  of 
the  same  year  he  passed  away,  in  the  ninety-third  year  of  his  age  and 
the  sixty-seventh  of  his  curacy. 

See  Wordsworth's  Prose  Works,  vol.  iii. ;  also  the  Excursion,  book 
vii. 

12-14.  See  Chaucer,  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales  ;  Herbert,  Priest 
to  the  Temple,  and  Goldsmith,  Deserted  Fillag-e.  ^Khigkt. 

XLIII. 

"  Return,  Content." 

Wordsworth  says  that  he  first  became  acquainted  with  the  Duddon 
by  accompanying  a  friend  from  Hawkshead  on  a  fishing  excursion. 
Cf.  Prelude,  i.  269-300. 

XLIV. 

"Who  swerves  from  Innocence." 

5-8.  In  regard  to  these  lines,  Wordsworth  says  that  oddly  enough 
this  imagination  was  realized  in  1840,  when  he  visited  this  district 
with  his  wife  and  daughter  and  others.  On  leaving  Seathwaite  the 
party  separated,  and  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  taking  an  opposite  direction, 
was  tempted  to  an  eminence,  expecting  there  to  await  them  on  their 
return;  they,  however,  did  not  find  her  until  well  into  the  evening. 

XLV. 

Afterthought. 

It  is  not  possible  to  ascertain  from  what  point  the  Poet  took  this 
view  of  the  Duddon.  Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley  thinks  that  it  may  have 
been  the  summit  of  a  hill  just  above  Broughton,  and  that  the  sight  of 
the  little  Broughton  church  would  give  rise  to  the  thought  that  the 
"  elements  must  vanish." 

27 


41 8  NOTES  TO  PAGES  321-323. 

The  last  stanza  of  Whittier's  poem  on  Wordsworth  strikes  the 
same  note  as  this  sonnet :  — 

"  Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 
But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God, 
With  Him  surviveth  all." 

It  was  in  this  faith  that  he  quietly  reposed  in  his  domestic  life, 
and  by  it  enhanced  all  the  faithful  affection  for  wife  and  sister,  chil- 
dren and  brother,  that  nowhere  in  English  poetry  burns  with  a  lovelier 
or  a  purer  light.  —  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke. 


1821. 


Introduction  to  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets. 
While   the   ecclesiastical   sonnets,  begun  in    182 1   and  continued 
through  the  Poet's  later  life,  do  not  often  rise  to  the  height  of  his 
best  work,  yet  there  are  among  them  a  few,  which  for  charm  of  dic- 
tion, united  with  depth  and  delicacy  of  sentiment,  are  unsurpassed. 

XLVII. 
Seclusion. 
See  Legends  of  Saxon  Saints,  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

XLVIII. 
Mutability. 
Cf.  Browning,  Prospice. 

XLIX.-LI. 
Inside  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge. 
Unless  one  has  passed  some  time  in  the  presence  of  England's  noble 
castles  and  inspiring  cathedrals,  he  is  apt  to  wonder  at  the  place  they 
occupy  in  the  literature  and  the  life  of  her  people.  In  the  seclusion 
of  the  cloisters  and  quadrangles  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  the  human 
past,  consecrated  by  the  memories  of  kings  and  queens,  of  saints  and 
sages,  of  poets  and  scholars,  fills  the  soul  with  awe.  Wordsworth,  in 
reverencing  King's  College  Chapel — the  noblest  and  most  inspiring 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  323,  324.  419 

structure  ever  erected  for  collegiate  worship  —  has  yielded  to  the 
spell  of  this  human  past.  The  history  of  this  magnificent  chapel  — 
the  last  of  the  thoroughly  mediaeval  structures  erected  at  Cambridge 
—  is  so  remarkable  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  it  somewhat  in 
detail. 

Un  the  loth  of  February,  1441,  about  one  year  after  his  founding  of 
Eton  College,  Henry  VI.  signed  the  charter  for  the  first  foundation  of 
the  Royal  College  of  St.  Nicholas,  but  the  site  chosen  was  so  limited 
that  in  1443  he  granted  a  charter  to  King's  College,  in  order  that  poor 
scholars  from  Eton  might  be  maintained  at  Cambridge  free  of  ex- 
pense. At  the  present  time  a  certain  number  of  Etonians  are  annu- 
ally sent  to  King's  College.  The  provisions  as  seen  in  the  will  of 
Henry  VI.  are  the  result  of  an  examination  of  William  Wykeham's 
College  at  Winchester :  this  document  is  remarkable  for  the  accuracy 
and  detail  of  the  King's  plans,  even  specifying  the  planting  of  trees 
and  flowers.  The  first  stone  of  the  building  was  laid  by  the  King  him- 
self on  July  28,  1446.  The  designer  of  the  structure  is  unknown;  it 
is  conjectured,  from  the  personal  supervision  and  alterations  made 
by  him  at  Eton,  that  Henry  himself  was  the  architect.  The  chapel, 
288  feet  long  and  40  feet  wide,  was  to  form  the  north  of  the  quad- 
rangle, the  east  and  west  sides  of  which  were  to  join  it,  while  the 
south  was  to  be  occupied  by  chambers.  The  material,  quarried  from 
the  same  place  as  that  used  for  Eton,  is  white  limestone,  and  marks 
the  limit  of  Henry's  work,  which  ceased  at  his  deposition.  Little  was 
done  to  the  building  for  nearly  half  a  century,  until,  at  the  close  of  his 
reign,  Henry  VII.  determined  to  do  honor  to  his  uncle  by  completing 
it.  In  1508  the  work  was  resumed,  and  carried  on  by  the  executors 
of  his  will ;  the  walls,  the  great  vault,  the  battlements,  and  pinnacles 
were  completed.  On  entering  the  city  from  Girton  in  1887,  these 
to -vers  were  the  first  to  greet  my  sight.     I  saw  — 

"  The  long-roofed  chapel  of  King's  College  lift 
Turrets  and  pinnacles  in  answering  files." 

Henry  VIII.  was  now  solicited  by  the  college  to  complete  the  work, 
and  the  interior  was  finished.  Of  the  twenty-six  windows,  twenty- 
five  contain  four  pictures,  each  in  '*  Oryent  colours  and  Imagery  of 
the  Story  of  the  olde  lawe  and  the  newe  lawe  after  the  fourme  of  the 
glasse  windowes  of  the  Kinge's  newe  chapell  at  Westmynster."  The 
windows  are  the  most  important  specimen  of  English  glass-painting 
in  existence.  These  glorious  paintings  are  in  two  series  around  the 
chapel  —  the  upper  illustrating  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament,  the 


420  NOTES  TO  PAGES  324,  325. 

lower,  scenes  from  the  New  Testament.  Such  is  the  delicacy  of  tint 
and  the  graceful  blending  of  colors,  that  while  the  brighter  hues  pre- 
vail, there  is  the  most  perfect  harmony,  the  shading  is  so  exceptional 
as  to  be  transparent,  and  the  fretted  roof  and  arches  glimmer, 

"  dyed 
In  the  soft  checkerings  of  a  sleepy  light." 

The  figures  are  larger  than  life,  and  the  expression  is  strong  and 
beautiful  — 

"  A  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence." 

That  these  windows  should  have  escaped  the  fanaticism  of  the  Puri- 
tan soldiers  quartered  in  the  city  is  almost  a  miracle.  The  work  of 
Henry  VII.  can  be  detected  by  the  presence  of  the  red  rose,  the  haw- 
thorn bush,  and  the  crown,  in  the  tracery  of  the  windows ;  while  the 
weaving  together  of  the  initials  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Anne  Boleyn  on 
the  organ  screen  and  stalls  tells  its  own  tale. 

8.    St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 

1823. 

LIT.  ' 

"  Not  Love,  not  War." 

It  may  well  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of  Wordsworth's  Muse  that 
she  does  not  affect  *'  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great ; "  that  she 
lets  the  sumptuous  chariots  and  equipages  wheel  by  unnoticed ;  and 
that  she  rather  shuns  than  seeks  '*  the  canopies  of  costly  state,"  the 
proud  saloons  of  fashion  and  high  life,  preferring  the  lowly  cottage 
where  modest  worth  and  "  honorable  brows  bedewed  with  toil  "  have 
their  abode,  and  eat  their  bread  in  purity  and  gentleness  of  heart.  — 
Dr.  Hudson. 

Cf.  Highland  Huty  1831. 

1827. 

LIII. 

To  Roth  a  Q — . 

Rotha  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Edward  Quillinan,  who,  in  1841, 
married  the  Poet's  daughter  Dora. 

See  Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter  Dora,  1804. 


NOTES   TO  PAGES  325,  326.  421 

10.  Rotha  is  the  river  that  unites  the  three  sister-lakes,  —  Grasmere, 
Rydal,  and  Windermere. 

LIV. 
To  ,  in  her  Seventieth  Year. 

Lady  Fitzgerald,  as  described  to  me  by  Lady  Beaumont.  —W.  W. 

This  sonnet  answers  admirably  Aubrey  de  Vere's  definition :  "  It 
is  in  poetry  what  the  Collect  is  in  devotion ; "  within  its  compass 
there  is  "  meditation  and  observation,  imagination  and  passion." 


"  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet." 

Composed  almost  extempore  in  a  short  walk  on  the  western  side 
of  Rydal  Lake. 

It  is  not  often  that  criticism  is  presented  to  us  in  the  form  of  the 
highest  poetry  and  condensed  into  fourteen  lines.  This  sonnet  alone 
is  sufficient  to  vindicate  Wordsworth's  claim  to  mastery  in  this  form 
of  poetry ;  for  in  it  we  have  history  enriched  with  the  finest  touches  of 
the  imagination,  and  transmitted  in  diction  pure  and  strong,  while  the 
music  varies  from  the  most  powerful  animation  to  the  softest  cadences 
of  metrical  harmony  — 

"  Rising  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly." 


1830. 

LVI. 
To  the  Author's  Portrait. 

The  portrait  here  alluded  to  was  painted  by  H.  W.  Pickersgill,  R.  A., 
at  the  request  of  the  Master  and  Fellows  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge. It  represents  the  Poet  seated  under  a  high  bank,  with  Lake 
scenery  in  the  background ;  he  is  clad  in  a  black  cloak  lined  with  red. 
while  the  left  hand,  holding  a  pencil,  rests  on  some  papers.  The  fea- 
tures are  sharp  profile,  as  the  face  is  turned  to  the  right.  The  picture 
hangs  in  the  Dining  Hall. 

The  last  six  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  not  written  for  poetical  effect, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  which,  in  more  than  one  instance,  could  not 
escape  my  notice  in  the  servants  of  the  house.  —  W.  W^. 


422  NOTES  TO  PAGES  327,  328. 

1831. 


The  Trossachs. 

For  an  account  of  this  visit  to  Scotland,  see  note  to  Yarrow  Revisi- 
ted,  and  On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Wordsworth  says  that 
the  remembrance  of  his  recent  farewell  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  colored 
this  and  the  two  following  sonnets.  Wordsworth  first  saw  the  Tros- 
sachs in  company  with  his  sister  and  Coleridge.  See  Memorials  of  a 
Tour  in  Scotland,  1803. 

In  Sonnet  LI V.  we  had  the  critical  and  the  descriptive  ;  here  we  have 
the  moral  and  the  descriptive. 

Mr.  Walter  Bagehot  cites  this  poem  as  an  illustration  of  Words- 
worth's purity  of  style. 

See  Stepping  Westward y  written  on  the  same  ground  in  1803. 


The  Pibroch's  Note. 
The  following  is  from  Duncan  Maclntyre's  poem,  Ben  Doran ;  it  is 
fitted  to  the  pibroch's  tune :  — 

Honor  o'er  all  Bens 
On  Bendoran  be ! 
Of  all  hills  the  sun  kens, 
Beautif uUest  he ; 
Mountain  long  and  sweeping, 
Nooks  the  red  deer  keeping, 
Light  on  braesides  sleeping ; 

There  I  've  watched  delightedly. 

Translated  by  PROFESSOR  Shairp. 

LIX. 

Highland  Hut. 

Wordsworth,  the  great  poet  of  our  times,  has  gone  to  common  life, 
to  the  feelings  of  our  universal  nature,  to  the  obscure  and  neglected 
portions  of  society,  for  beautiful  and  touching  themes.  The  grand 
truth  which  pervades  his  poetry  is  that  the  beautiful  is  not  confined 
to  the  rare,  the  new,  the  distant  —  to  scenery  and  modes  of  life  open 
only  to  the  few.     He  is  the  poet  of  humanity ;  he  teaches  reverence 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  328,  329.  423 

for  our  universal  nature  ;  he  breaks  down  the  factitious  barriers  be- 
tween human  hearts.  —  Wm.  E.  Channing,  D.  D. 


1833. 

LX. 
!  To  the  River  Derwent. 

Although  this  sonnet  was  written  in  1819,  Wordsworth  republished 
it  as  introductory  to  the  following  tour. 

In  the  summer  of  1833  Wordsworth,  accompanied  by  his  son,  the 
Rev.  John  Wordsworth,  and  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  made  a  short 
tour  in  Scotland.  His  course  was  down  the  Derwent  to  Whitehaven 
and  the  Isle  of  Man,  thence  to  Staffa  and  lona,  returning  to  England 
by  Loch  Awe,  through  Ayrshire  to  Carlisle,  and  by  the  river  Eden 
and  Ullswater.  This  and  the  following  four  sonnets  mark  his  route. 
The  Derwent,  the  river  of  his  youth,  rises  in  Borrowdale  near  the 
Eagle's  Crag. 

See  Prelude,  i.  269-300 ;   also  note  to  The  Sparrow's  Nest,  1801. 

LXI. 

In  Sight  of  the  Town  of  Cockermouth. 

Wordsworth's  mother  died  in  1778  and  his  father  in  1783;  they 
were  buried  at  Cockermouth. 
See  Sonnet  LX.  and  references. 


LXII. 
Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle. 

Cockermouth  Castle  stands  on  an  eminence  not  far  from  the  manor- 
house  in  which  Wordsworth  was  born.  It  was  built  by  the  first  lord 
of  Allerdale,  in  the  reign  of  William  I.,  as  a  Border  defence  against 
Cumberland's  old  enemies,  the  Scots.  It  was  captured  by  Douglas  in 
1387,  and  in  1568  was  the  prison  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  It  is  one 
of  the  finest  castle  ruins  in  England. 

See  Sonnet  LX.,  references ;  also  Prehide,  i.  269-287,  and  Historic 
Towns,  Carlisle,  chap.  v.     Cf.  To  a  Butterfly. 


424  NOTES  TO  PAGES  330,  331. 

LXIII. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

Landing  at  the  mouth  of  the  Derwent,  Workington. 

Mary,  in  making  her  escape  from  Scotland  after  the  battle  at  Lang- 
side,  1568,  made  a  fruitless  effort  to  reach  Dumbarton,  and  then  sought 
refuge  in  Galloway.  After  a  ride  of  ninety  miles  she  reached  the 
Solway ;  then  jumping  into  a  fishing  boat,  with  a  handful  of  attendants 
she  landed  at  Workington,  and  under  escort  of  the  Warden  and  gentry 
of  Cockermouth  before  evening  was  safe  in  the  Castle  of  Carlisle. 

See  Historic  Towns,  Carlisle,  chap.  vii. 


"'There!'  said  the  Stripling. 

"  It  is  remarkable,"  says  Wordsworth,  **  that  though  Burns  lived 
some  time  here,  he  nowhere  adverts  to  the  splendid  prospects  stretch- 
ing towards  the  sea,  and  bounded  by  the  peaks  of  Arran,  which  he 
must  have  had  daily  before  his  eyes.  Soon  after  we  had  passed  Moss- 
giel  farm  we  crossed  the  Ayr  murmuring  and  winding  through  a  narrow 
woody  hollow." 

See  Burns's  Daisy. 

LXV. 

"  Most  Sweet  it  is." 

This  sonnet  reveals  to  us  the  method  of  the  Poet's  work,  and  if 
rightly  understood  will  show  us  the  grounds  of  his  criticism  upon 
Scott's  method,  which  he  considered  as  too  conscious :  approaching 
Nature  with  pencil  and  note-book  and  jotting  down  an  inventory  of 
her  charms.  *'  In  every  scene,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  many  of  the  most 
brilliant  details  are  but  accidental ;  a  true  eye  for  Nature  does  not 
note  them,  or  at  least  does  not  dwell  on  them."  Matthew  Arnold 
says :  "  This  sonnet  cannot  be  matched  from  Milton." 

See  Essays  on  Poetry,  vol.  ii.  chap,  xv.,  by  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

1837. 

LXVI. 

The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario,  at  Rome. 

In  March,  1837,  Wordsworth,  in  company  with  his  friend,  Henry 
Crabb  Robinson,  visited  Italy. 


NOTES  TO  PAGES  331-333.  42$ 

This  pine  had  been  bought  by  Sir  George  Beaumont  to  save  it  from 
the  axe.  Wordsworth  says  that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  embrace  the  trunk  of  this  interesting  monument  of  his  friend's  feel- 
ings for  the  beauties  of  Nature. 

See  Memoirs  of  Wordsworth. 


1838. 

LXVII. 
Composed  on  a  May  morning,  1833. 

This  sonnet  was  composed  upon  the  "Far  Terrace  "  at  Rydal  Mount, 
**  where,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  I  have  murmured  out  many  thousands 
of  verses." 

Wordsworth's  soul,  "  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe  in  love  and 
holy  passion,"  could  find  no  sphere  from  which  the  divine  life  was  ex- 
cluded, no  sphere  where  joy  was  not  "in  widest  commonalty  spread." 
It  is  this  element  in  Wordsworth's  work  that  makes  it  so  uplifting. 

LXVIII. 

"  Blest  Statesman  He." 

Cf.  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior. 

The  earth  waits  for  exalted  manhood. 

Emerson. 


1841. 

LXIX.,  LXX. 
To  a  Painter. 

Miss  Margaret  Gillies,  the  accomplished  artist,  was  a  friend  of  the 
Wordsworths,  and  often  visited  in  the  family.  She  painted  several 
portraits  of  the  Poet ;  the  first  was  at  the  suggestion  of  Moon,  the 
publisher,  for  the  purpose  of  engraving.  Wordsworth  was  so  much 
pleased  with  it  that  he  requested  that  it  be  reproduced,  and  Mrs. 
Wordsworth's  added.     It  was  to  this  portrait  that  these  sonnets  refer. 

See  She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight. 


426  NOTES  TO  PAGE  334. 


1842. 

LXXI. 
"A  Poet!" 

He  would  be  a  very  bold  man  who  would  assert  that  Wordsworth, 
when  at  his  best,  was  not  an  artist  in  a  very  high  degree,  and  yet 
in  the  writings  of  no  other  poet  do  we  find  so  clearly  illustrated  the 
limits  between  poetry  and  verse.  In  both  of  his  long  poems  we  have 
poetry  of  as  lofty  character  as  our  language  can  boast,  and  in  the  same 
poems  we  also  meet  passages  of  the  plainest  verse. 

The  subtle  relation  existing  between  the  conscious  and  the  uncon- 
scious elements  in  Art  is  a  mystery ;  it  is  generally  true,  however,  that 
as  the  one  increases  the  other  diminishes.  Thus  the  prevalence  of 
the  one  or  the  other  of  these  tendencies  —  conscious  effect  or  lofty 
inspiration,  spiritual  disease  or  spiritual  health,  reason  or  faith  —  con- 
stitutes the  ebb  and  flow  in  English  poetry. 

In  the  first  part  of  this  sonnet  Wordsworth  gives  us  something 
of  the  method  of  the  poets  of  the  Restoration,  who,  as  Keats  says, 
taught  that  to  write  poetry  was 

"  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip  and  fit. 
easy  was  the  task, 
A  hundred  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy."  1 

Of  these  writers  Mr.  Gosse  says  that  for  the  direct  appeal  to  Na- 
ture they  substituted  generalities  and  second-hand  allusions,  and  the 
result  of  coining  these  conventional  counters  for  groups  of  ideas  was 
that  the  personal,  the  exact,  was  lost  in  literature. 

It  was  against  such  a  perversion  of  Art  that  Wordsworth  did  battle  ; 
he  insisted  that  true  Art  was  the  product  of  the  whole  nature,  intel- 
lect, sensibility,  and  will,  aglow  with  a  lofty  spiritual  imagination 
where  "form  is  lost  in  the  effulgence  of  the  soul  breathing  through 
it."  In  that  battle  there  was  needed  "the  service  of  a  mind  and 
heart  heroically  fashioned." 

Mr.  Gosse  again  says  that  the  poetry  of  these  classical  versemen 
received  blow  upon  blow  from  the  naturalistic  poets,  until  by  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  it  was  destroyed  altogether. 

»  Sleep  and  Poetry. 


NOTES  TO  PAGE  334.  427 

In  the  valedictory  sonnet  to  the  edition  of  1838  we  have  the  method 
and  the  aim  of  Wordsworth's  work  :  — 

"  If  in  this  book  Fancy  and  Truth  agree  ; 
If  simple  Nature  trained  by  careful  Art 
Through  it  have  won  a  passage  to  thy  heart ; 
Grant  me  thy  love,  I  crave  no  other  fee." 

Dr.  Moir,  the  Scottish  author  and  critic,  says:  "  Never,  perhaps,  in 
the  whole  range  of  literary  history,  from  Homer  downwards,  did  any 
individual,  throughout  the  course  of  a  long  life,  dedicate  himself  to 
poetry  with  a  devotion  so  pure,  so  perfect,  and  so  uninterrupted  as 
he  did." 

Consult  Wordsworth  as  an  Artist,  in  Hudson's  Studies  in  Words- 
worth,  Corson's  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning,  Dowden's  In* 
terpretation  of  Literature,  in  Transcripts  and  Studies,  and  Preface  to 
my  edition  of  the  Prelude. 


The  following  works  have  been  quoted  in  the  notes :  — 
Arnold,    M.  —  "Memorial   Verses."     Preface  to   Selections  from 

Wordsworth. 
Bagehot,  W.  —  Literary  Studies. 
Blackie,  J.  S.  —  Lays  of  the  Highlands  and  Islands. 
Brooke,  S.  A.  —  Theology  in  the  English  Poets.     Christ  in  Modern 

Life. 
Carlyle,  T.  —  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship. 
Channing,  W.  E.  —  Self-culture. 
Coleridge,  H. —  Sonnets. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.  —  Biographia  Literaria. 
Corson,  H.  —  Introduction  to  Browning. 
Dowden,  E.  —  Studies    in    Literature.     Transcripts    and    Studies 

Correspondence  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor. 
Emerson,  E.  W.  —  Emerson  in  Concord. 
Emerson,  R.  W.  —  Essays  ("  Inspiration,"  "Nature  **). 
George,  A.  J.  —  Wordsworth's  "  Prelude." 
GossE,  E.  —  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope. 
Gray,  A.  —  Natural  Science  and  Religion. 
Grosart,  a.  B.  —  The  Prose  Works  of  William  Wordsworth. 
Haydon,  F.  W.  —  Haydon's  Correspondence  and  Table  Talk. 


428  NOTES. 

Hudson,  H.  N.  —  Studies  in  Wordsworth. 

HuTTON,  R.  H.  —  Essays. 

Knight,  W.  —  Wordsworth's  Poetical  Works.  Memories  of  Cole* 
orton. 

Landor,  W.  S.  —  Imaginary  Conversations. 

Lee,  E.  —  Dorothy  Wordsworth. 

LocKHART,  J.  G.  —  Life  of  Scott. 

Martineau,  H.  —  Biographical  Sketches. 

Mill,  J.  S.  —  Autobiography. 

MoiR,  D.  M.  —  Lectures  on  Poetical  Literature. 

Myers,  F.  W.  —  Wordsworth. 

Oliphant,  Mrs,  —  Makers  of  Venice.     Literary  History  of  England. 

Rawnsley,  H.  D.  —  Sonnets  at  the  English  Lakes. 

Reed,  H.  —  Lectures  on  British  Poets. 

Rix,  H.  —  Duddon  Sonnets.  Wordsworth  Society  Transactions, 
Vol.  V. 

Robertson,  F.  W.  —  Lectures,  Addresses,  and  Literary  Remains. 

RusKiN,  J.  —  Stones  of  Venice.     Modern  Painters. 

Sandford,  Mrs.  —  Thomas  Poole  and  His  Friends. 

Scott,  Sir  W  --  Poems  ("  Helvellyn  "). 

Shairp,  J.  C. —  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy.  Aspects  of 
Poetry.  Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature.  Wordsworth's  Tour  in 
Scotland. 

Stephen,  L.  —  Hours  in  a  Library  —  Third  Series. 

Talfourd,  T.  N. —  Life  of  Charles  Lamb. 

Taylor,  Sir  H.  —  Critical  Essays  on  Poetry.     Autobiography. 

Vere,  a.  de.  —  Essays.  Essay  in  Wordsworth  Society  Transac- 
tions, Vol.  V. 

Whipple,  E.  P.  —  Literature  and  Life. 


INDEX  TO   FIRST   LINES. 


Paob 

A  barking  sound  the  Shepherd  hears 178 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 313 

Age  I  twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  flowers 160 

All  praise  the  Likeness  by  thy  skill  portrayed 333 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 79 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream     ....  32^ 

An  age  hath  been  when  Earth  was  proud 238 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow? — T'/^/j  the  stream 233 

An  Orpheus  !  an  Orpheus  !     Yes,  Faith  may  grow  bold     .     .     .  201 

I  Another  year  !     Another  deadly  blow ! 315 

A  pen  —  to  register  ;  a  key 254 

A  Poet !  —  He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school 334 

A  point  of  life  between  my  Parents'  dust 329 

A  Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 276 

Art  thou  a  Statist  in  the  van 37 

Art  thou  the  bird  that  Man  loves  best 112 

A  simple  child 4 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 36 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears   ....  296 

A  trouble  not  of  clouds  or  weeping  rain 282 

Begone,  thou  fond  presumptuous  elf 99 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 156 

Behold  within  the  leafy  shade 105 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 138 

Bleak  season  was  it,  turbulent  and  wild 53 

Blest  is  this  Isle,  —  our  native  Land 256 

Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will 332 

Bright  Flower  I  whose  home  is  everywhere 137 

By  their  floating  mill 197 


430  INDEX   TO  FIRST  IINES.  v 

Calvert !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 314 

Child  of  loud-throated  War  !  the  mountain  Stream      ....  152 

IClarkson  !  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb  ........  316 

I  Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 310 

Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail 193 

Dear  native  regions,  I  foretell i 

Dear  to  the  Loves  and  to  the  Graces  vowed 330 

Degenerate  Douglass  I     Oh,  the  unworthy  lord 306 

Departing  summer  hath  assumed 249 

Earth  hath  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 299 

JEnglandl  the  time  is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean     ....  308 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky 264 

-^Fair  star  of  Evening,  splendor  of  the  west 300 

Farewell,  thou  little  Nook  of  mountain-ground 125 

'•Festivals  have  I  seen  that  were  not  names 301  ^ 

Five  years  have  passed  ;  five  summers  with  the  length  ....  17 

Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere-dale 163 

Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep 314 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb 322 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 158 

Go,  faithful  Portrait !  and  where  long  hath  knelt 326 

—Great  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penned      ....  305 

Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 245 

Hast  thou  then  survived 171 

Here  pause  :  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise 317 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate 211 

High  is  our  calling,  friend  !  —  Creative  Art 317 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean loi 

Hope  rules  a  land  forever  green 270 

I  am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight     ' 31T 

I  come,  ye  little  noisy  crew 39 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  step 82 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  43  ^ 

If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child 42 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain ♦.     .     .     .  286 

If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven 286 

- — J  grieved  for  Buonaparte 299 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 11 

—Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale  I  stood 303 

Inmate  of  a  mountain  dwelling 236 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree 276 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan 7 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men 154 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went 132 

I  saw  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk 22 

I  saw  far  off  the  dark  top  of  a  pine 331 

I  shiver,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold 141 

v[s  it  a  reed  that 's  shaken  by  the  wind 300 

I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide 321 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 302 

"^^It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 305*, 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March 12 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men 34 

It  seems  a  day 30 

It  was  an  April  morning  :  fresh  and  clear 77 

I  've  watched  you  now  a  full  half-hour      . 

1  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

I  was  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile 

I,  who  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 321 

-Jones  !  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I 301 

Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished,  at  his  side 322 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth 182 

Life  with  yon  Lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun 332 

Lord  of  the  vale  !  astounding  Flood 231 

Loud  is  the  Vale  !  the  Voice  is  up 199 

'Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns 147 

-^Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour 304 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 331 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold ".    .  m 


432  INDEX   TO  FIRST  LINES.  ^ 

Nay,  Traveller !  rest.     This  lonely  yew-tree  stands 2 

Nor  can  I  not'believe  but  that  thereby 312 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 287 

Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 324 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room 309 

O  blithe  New-comer !     I  have  heard 164 

O  dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear 260 

-O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 304 

Oft  have  I  caught  upon  a  fitful  breeze 261 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 49 

O  gentle  Sleep  !  do  they  belong  to  thee 313 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee 302 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  master 181 

O  Nightingale  !  thou  surely  art 210 

On  Nature's  invitation  do  I  come 52 

O  thou!  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought 131 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies 115 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 117 

Return,  Content !  for  fondly  I  pursued 320 

Rotha,  my  spiritual  child  !  this  head  was  gray 325 

Sacred  Religion  !  mother  of  form  and  fear 319 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned 326 

See  what  gay  wild-flowers  deck  this  earth-built  cot 328 

Serene,  and  fitted  to  embrace 226 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways ,    .     .    .     .  -t^i 

She  had  a  tall  man's  height  or  more 108 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 166 

Six  thousand  veterans  practised  in  War's  game 309 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts 288 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive 295 

Sole  listener,  Duddon  !  to  the  breeze  that  played 319 

Stay  near  me  :  do  not  take  thy  flight    .     .     ,     , .114 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 175 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known .  32 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  433 

Such  age,  how  beautiful !  O  Lady  bright 325 

Surprised  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  Wind «     .     .  318 

Sweet  Flower!  belike  one  day  to  have 190 

Sweet  Highland  girl,  a  very  shower 149 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense •   .     .    .  323 

The  cock  is  crowing no 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained :     .  278 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor 54 

The  little  hedge-row  birds 29 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 251 

The  Pibroch's  note  discountenanced  or  mute     .,,....  327 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career 106 

•—There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear     .    .    .     0     .    .     .  307 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine 174 

There  is  an  Eminence, — of  these  our  hills 82 

There  is  a  Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale 139 

"There  !  "  said  the  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride       .    .     .  330 

There  's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass 327 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night 119 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream 203 

•—These  times  strike  monied  worldlings  with  dismay 307 

"  These  tourists,  heaven  preserve  us  !  needs  must  live  "...  62 

The  sun  has  long  been  set 130 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon 310 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 324 

Though  I  beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise 333 

Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 264 

"Thou  lookst  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think" 329 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 34 

'T  is  gone, — with  old  belief  and  dream 273 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory 288 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 144 

— Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men 303 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions 248 

•".Two  Voices  are  there  :  one  is  of  the  sea  .........  316 

Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books 15 

Up  with  me  1  up  with  me  into  the  clouds     .,.....»  177 

28 


434  INDEX   TO  FIRST  LINES. 

\  Vanguard  of  Libert}-,  ye  men  of  Kent 308         v» 

Well  mayst  thou  halt  —  and  gaze  with  brightening  eye      .    •    .  315 

We  talked  with  open  heart  and  tongue ",    ,  46 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 44 

What  awful  perspective  !  while  from  our  sight 323 

What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene 217 

*^'^\\di\.,  you  are  stepping  westzaard  ?'^  —  Yea ^55 

When  first  descending  from  the  moorlands 293 

■"•When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tarned 306 

When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world 184 

Where  are  they  now,  those  wanton  Boys 243 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son 168 

Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds 268 

Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  powers  .......  283 

Q^Vho  is  the  Happy  Warrior  ?     W^ ho  is  he     ........  194 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce 320 

Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone 14 

Wings  have  we,  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 312 

Within  our  happy  Castle  there  dwelt  One     . 127 

Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work 240 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 135 

With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 220 

Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth 318 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  echo     .     . 19^ 

•'  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "is  life;  we  have  seen  and  see  "   .    .    .    .  311 


14  DAY  USE 


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